GIFT  OF 
J.B.    Peixotto 


s7 


3 


17 


SELECT 


AMERICAN    CLASSICS 


BEING  SELECTIONS  FROM 

IRVING'S  SKETCH  BOOK,  WEBSTER'S  ORATIONS  AND  EMERSON'S  ESSAYS 
AS  PUBLISHED  IN  THE  ECLECTIC  ENGLISH  CLASSICS. 


NEW  YORK    •  :  •    CINCINNATI    •  I  •    CHICAGO 

AMERICAN    BOOK    COMPANY 


Copyright,  1896,  by 
AMERICAN  BOOK  COMPANY, 


s.  A.  c.— 

w.  P.  3 


ECLECTIC    ENGLISH    CLASSICS 


TEN   SELECTIONS 


FROM 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK 


BY 

WASHINGTON  IRVING 


'  Go,  little  booke,  God  send  thee  good  passage, 
And  specially  let  this  be  thy  prayere, 
Unto  them  all  that  thee  will  read  or  hear, 
Where  thou  art  wrong,  after  their  help  to  call, 
Thee  to  correct  in  any  part  or  all." 

CHAUCER. 


NEW  YORK  •:•  CINCINNATI  •:•  CHICAGO 

AMERICAN    BOOK   COMPANY 


Copyright,  1892,  by 
AMERICAN  BOOK  COMPANY 

IRV.'S  SK.-BK. 
w.  p.  8 


Published  Dy  permission  of  Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  the 
publishers  of  the  complete  and  authorized  editions  of  Irving's  works. 


INTRODUCTION. 


WASHINGTON  IRVING,  the  eighth  and  youngest  son  of  William 
and  Sarah  Irving,  was  born  in  a  house  on  William  Street,  in  New 
York  City,  April  3,  1783.  His  father  was  a  descendant  of  an 
old  Orkney  family,  and  his  mother  was  a  native  of  Falmouth, 
England.  Young  Washington  began  his  school  days  at  the  age 
of  four.  At  the  age  of  sixteen  his  school  days  were  over,  and 
he  began  the  study  of  law.  Though  his  education  was  of  a 
rudimentary  and  incomplete  character,  consisting  of  a  smatter- 
ing of  Latin,  music,  and  the  ordinary  English  branches,  he  gave 
early  signs  of  a  natural  avidity  for  reading,  and  of  a  power  of  rap- 
idly assimilating  what  he  read.  Sinbad,  Robinson  Crusoe,  and 
Gulliver  made  a  deep  impression  on  his  young  mind.  His 
early  fondness  for  romance  showed  itself  in  many  ways,  and  the 
theater  in  John  Street  possessed  for  him  a  seductive  charm,  to 
which  he  succumbed  as  often  as  he  could  steal  away  from  home ; 
for  his  father,  of  the  stern  ways  and  habits  of  the  Scotch  Cove- 
nanter, looked  upon  theaters  with  hearty  disfavor.  In  1802  he 
entered  the  law  office  of  Josiah  Ogden  Hoffman,  and,  together 
with  his  "  Blackstone,"  he  read  general  literature  voraciously. 
About  this  time  his  health  began  to  fail,  and  he  made  frequent 
trips  up  the  Hudson  and  the  Mohawk,  to  Ogdensburg,  Montreal, 
Albany,  Schenectady,  and  Saratoga.  While  in  Judge  Hoffman's 

3 

869045 


4  INTRODUCTION. 

office,  he  offset  the  tedium  of  his  studies  by  writing,  over  the 
name  of  "  Jonathan  Oldstyle,"  a  series  of  papers  for  the  "  Morn- 
ing Chronicle,"  a  newspaper  planned  on  the  style  of  the  "  Spec- 
tator "  and  "  Tatler."  His  health  continuing  poor,  in  May  he 
went  to  Europe,  spent  six  weeks  in  Bordeaux,  studying  the  lan- 
guage, seeing  life,  and  enlarging  the  scope  of  his  powers  of  obser- 
vation. Then  he  visited  the  Mediterranean,  gathering  more  ma- 
terial, seeing  new  cities,  studying  the  strong  characters  he  met. 
Sicily,  Genoa,  Naples,  Rome,  came  beneath  his  eye,  and  he  saw 
Nelson's  fleet  spreading  its  sails  for  Trafalgar.  At  Rome  a  criti- 
cal epoch  in  his  life  occurred.  The  atmosphere  of  music,  of 
which  he  was  passionately  fond,  of  art,  and  especially  painting, 
all  tended  to  work  powerfully  on  the  artistic  side  of  his  nature, 
and  appealed  strongly  to  the  poetic  temperament,  that,  in  spite 
of  his  keen  sense  of  humor,  was  deep  within  him.  At  this  time, 
and  in  this  atmosphere,  he  met  Washington  Allston,  the  artist, 
and  was  almost  persuaded  by  him  to  take  up  art ;  but  Irving, 
convinced  that  his  inclination  was  more  the  effect  of  his  present 
surroundings  than  of  a  deep  latent  artistic  power  within  himself, 
refrained,  and  continued  his  journey,  seeking  new  faces  and  new 
scenes.  Irving  was  essentially  a  traveler.  He  saw  at  a  glance 
all  those  peculiarities  and  oddities  of  form  and  character  that  at- 
tract and  amuse  ;  and  he  had  a  happy  way  of  putting  up  with  in- 
conveniences, getting  the  best  out  of  everything  that  came  before 
his  notice,  and  entering  thoroughly  into  the  spirit  of  his  surround- 
ings. Switzerland,  the  Netherlands,  Paris,  London,  were  in  turn 
visited.  In  London  he  saw  John  Kemble,  Cooke,  and  Mrs.  Sid- 
dons.  In  February,  1806,  he  returned  to  this  country,  and  was 
admitted  to  the  bar,  but  he  never  practiced  law.  He  soon  en- 
gaged, with  his  brother  William  and  James  K.  Paulding,  in  the 


INTRODUCTION.  5 

issue  (1807)  of  a  humorously  satirical  semi-monthly  periodical 
called  "  Salmagundi,  or  the  Whim- Whams  and  Opinions  of  Laun- 
celot  Langstaff,  Esq.,  and  Others."  It  was  quite  successful  in  its 
local  hits,  and  in  it  Irving  first  awoke  to  a  conception  of  his 
power.  In  1809  appeared  the  droll  "History  of  New  York  by 
Diedrich  Knickerbocker.  From  the  Beginning  of  the  World  to 
the  End  of  the  Dutch  Dynasty."  It  won  for  its  author  instant 
fame.  The  book  was  cleverly  advertised  before  it  appeared,  the 
newspapers  containing  descriptions  of  a  gentleman  named  Died- 
rich Knickerbocker,  who  was  said  to  have  mysteriously  disap- 
peared without  paying  his  board  bill,  but  leaving  behind  him  a 
curious  manuscript  which  his  creditor  was  about  to  publish.  Just 
before  the  book  was  completed,  Irving  underwent  the  great  an- 
guish of  his  life.  The  second  daughter  of  Judge  Hoffman,  Ma- 
tilda, with  whom  he  was  in  love,  died  in  her  eighteenth  year. 
He  remained  true  to  her  memory,  and  never  married.  The 
"  Knickerbocker  History  "  was  highly  praised  by  Scott,  who  rec- 
ognized its  merit,  and  detected  in  it  strong  resemblances  to  the 
style  of  Swift.  The  work  was  begun  by  Washington  and  his 
brother  Peter  as  a  travesty  on  Dr.  Samuel  Mitchell's  "  Handbook 
of  New  York;"  but  Peter  sailed  for  Europe  when  five  chapters 
only  were  completed,  and  left  Washington  to  finish  the  work. 
The  next  year  (1810)  Washington  became  a  silent  partner,  with 
a  fifth  interest,  in  the  commercial  house  established  in  New  York 
and  Liverpool  by  his  brothers,  and  (1813-14)  was  editorially 
connected  with  the  "  Analectic  Magazine  "  of  Philadelphia,  and 
contributed  a  number  of  biographical  sketches  of  American  naval 
commanders.  In  1814  he  served  four  months  as  aide-de-camp 
and  military  secretary  to  Gov.  Tompkins,  and  in  1815  sailed 
again  for  Europe.  About  this  time  financial  troubles  began  to 


6  INTRODUCTION. 

gather  over  the  business  house ;  and  Washington,  on  arriving  in 
England,  found  his  brother  Peter  ill,  and  thus  considerable  work 
of  a  commercial  nature  devolved  upon  him.  Yet  in  the  midst  of 
business  cares  he  found  time  for  quiet  rovings  through  Warwick- 
shire and  other  parts  of  England,  gathering  material  for  "  The 
Sketch-Book,"  and  mingling  in  society  with  the  literary  men  of 
the  time.  But  the  business  troubles  of  the  house  increased,  and 
1816  and  1817  were  anxious  years.  It  was  in  the  latter  year 
that  he  met  Scott  in  his  home  at  Abbotsford,  and  felt  the  charm 
of  his  family  circle.  In  1818  the  house  went  into  bankruptcy. 
Irving,  declining  a  clerkship  in  the  Navy  Department,  and  defer- 
ring an  editorship  which  Scott  held  out  to  him,  preferred  to  fol- 
low his  own  literary  pursuits,  and  brought  out  "The  Sketch- 
Book  "  (1819)  in  America.  It  was  unqualifiedly  successful ;  and 
Irving,  who  had  heretofore  been  held  as  the  ornamental  feature 
of  the  family,  became  its  financial  stay,  graciously  returning  the 
kind  favors  of  earlier  days.  Irving  offered  "  The  Sketch-Book  " 
to  Murray  &  Constable  for  republication ;  but  they  declined  it, 
in  spite  of  Scott's  recommendation.  Irving  then  started  to  pub- 
lish it  himself,  but,  his  publisher  failing,  its  issue  was  stopped. 
Scott  induced  Murray  to  buy  it  for  two  hundred  pounds,  which 
was  doubled  on  the  success  of  the  book.  In  1820  Irving  was  in 
Paris,  and  in  1821  wrote  "  Bracebridge  Hall,"  bringing  it  out  in 

1822.  This  year  he  was  in  Dresden.     He  returned  to  Paris  in 

1823,  and  the  next  year  brought  out  "  Tales  of  a  Traveller."     It 
was  severely  criticised.     The  year  1826  found  him  in  Madrid  as 
attache  of  the  legation  commissioned  by  A.  H.  Everett,  United 
States  minister  to  Spain,  to  translate  various  documents  relating 
to  Columbus,  collected  by  Navarrete ;  and  from  this  work  Irving 
produced  (1828)  the  "  History  of  the  Life  and  Voyages  of  Chris- 


INTRODUCTION.  ^ 

topher  Columbus."  For  it  he  got  three  thousand  guineas,  and 
the  fifty-guinea  medal  offered  by  George  IV.  for  historical  com- 
position. A  pleasant  sojourn  in  the  south  of  Spain  gave  him 
further  insight  into  Spanish  lore,  and  in  1829  the  "  Chronicles  of 
the  Conquest  of  Granada  "  was  given  to  the  public.  In  the  quiet 
seclusion  of  the  Alhambra,  the  same  year,  he  wove  a  portion  of 
that  graceful  fabric  which  he  gave  the  world  in  1832.  While  in 
the  Alhambra  he  received  word  of  his  appointment  as  secretary 
to  the  legation  at  London,  and,  reluctantly  accepting  it,  returned 
there.  In  1831  appeared  his  "Companions  of  Columbus,"  and 
the  same  year  he  received  from  Oxford  the  degree  of  LL.D.  The 
next  year  he  returned  to  New  York,  after  a  foreign  sojourn  of 
seventeen  years,  and  was  welcomed  with  tremendous  enthusiasm. 
He  bought  Sunnyside,  below  Tarrytown  on  the  Hudson,  and 
prepared  to  settle  quietly  down  to  literary  work ;  but  the  restless 
spirit  of  travel  he  had  imbibed  abroad  induced  him  to  take  a  fly- 
ing trip  through  the  West  before  doing  so,  and  the  summer  of 
the  same  year  found  him  with  Commissioner  Ellsworth,  interested 
in  the  removal  of  the  Indian  tribes  across  the  Mississippi.  The 
literary  outcome  of  this  digression  was  the  "  Tour  on  the  Prai- 
ries," which  came  out  in  1835.  With  it  came  also  "  Abbotsford  " 
and  "  Newstead  Abbey,"  and  the  "  Legends  of  the  Conquest  of 
Spain,"  making  up  the  "Crayon  Miscellany."  In  1836  came 
"Astoria;"  and  from  1839  to  1841  he  contributed  articles  for  the 
"  Knickerbocker  Magazine,"  which  were  afterward  gathered  into 
"Wolfert's  Roost"  (1855).  From  1842  to  1846  Irving  was 
United  States  minister  to  Spain.  Returning  to  his  home,  he 
spent  the  remaining  years  of  his  life  at  Sunnyside,  engaged  in  lit- 
erary work,  chiefly  the  "  Life  of  Mahomet "  and  the  "  Life  of 
Washington."  The  final  volume  of  this  last  was  completed  only 


8  INTRODUCTION. 

three  months  before  he  died.  He  passed  away  at  Sunny  side, 
Nov.  28,  1859. 

Washington  Irving  was  the  first  American  who  was  admitted 
by  Englishmen  on  equal  terms  into  the  great  republic  of  letters. 
By  him  American  literature  was  enriched  in  form  and  elegance, 
and  its  scope  enlarged.  He  opened  the  treasure-house  of  Span- 
ish history  and  romance,  and  gave  an  impulse  to  historical  and 
biographical  research.  As  an  historian  and  biographer,  his  con- 
clusions were  carefully  drawn,  and  just,  and  have  stood  the  test 
of  time. 

Possessed  of  a  broad  and  genial  nature,  a  rich  poetic  tempera- 
ment, a  fancy  that  was  as  nimble  as  it  was  sprightly,  a  facile  and 
ornate  power  of  vivid  and  graphic  description,  and  a  pure  and 
graceful  style  that  rivals  that  of  Addison,  he  was  the  very  prince 
of  story-tellers  and  the  most  fascinating  of  fireside  companions. 
His  delicacy  of  touch  was  equal  to  the  task  of  adding  beauty  to 
the  exquisite  tracery  of  the  Alhambra,  and  his  refined  imagina- 
tion revivified  the  romantic  legends  of  Granada,  while  his  genial 
humor  created  a  cherished  ancestry  for  his  native  city.  With 
such  inimitable  drollery  did  he  place  in  succession  upon  his  can- 
vas the  Dutch  forefathers  of  New  Amsterdam,  that  Diedrich 
Knickerbocker,  fleeing  through  the  dormer-windowed  streets  of 
New  York,  left  behind  him  the  legacy  of  a  name  as  real  and  as 
enduring  as  that  of  Peter  Stuyvesant. 

Yet  it  is  in  "  The  Sketch-Book,"  perhaps,  more  than  in  any 
other  of  his  works,  that  the  qualities  of  style  and  mind  which 
have  so  characterized  Washington  Irving,  and  endeared  him  to 
English-reading  people,  appear  in  their  freshest,  most  varied 
form,  covering  a  wider  range  of  humanity,  bubbling  over  with  a 
humor  that  seems  to  have  the  inexhaustible  spontaneity  of  a 


INTRODUCTION.  9 

spring.  Here  drollery,  grace,  pathos,  grandeur,  in  turn  touch  the 
heart  and  move  the  fancy.  A  broad,  genial  atmosphere  per- 
vades it,  fresh  and  open  as  the  blue  sky,  in  which  its  characters 
live,  move,  and  have  their  being,  drawn  with  a  portraiture  as  real 
as  life,  and  with  a  gentle  satire  that  has  no  trace  of  bitterness. 

It  is  "  The  Sketch-Book  "  that  affords  such  charming  glimpses 
of  the  good  old  English  Christmas,  and  such  graceful  reflections, 
under  the  shadow  of  the  venerable  Abbey ;  while  with  its  tatter- 
demalion Rip  Van  Winkle,  and  its  soft  but  timid-hearted  peda- 
gogue Ichabod  Crane,  it  is  "  The  Sketch-Book  "  which  has  given 
to  our  noble  Hudson  the  weird  witchery  of  legend,  charming  as 
the  blue  outline  of  the  Catskills,  and  fascinating  as  the  shades  of 
Sleepy  Hollow. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  AUTHOR'S  ACCOUNT  OF  HIMSELF         .        .        .        .13 

THE  VOYAGE 16 

t 
CHRISTMAS      .        .        . 23 

THE  STAGECOACH 30 

CHRISTMAS  EVE .        .  .37 

CHRISTMAS  DAY 50 

CHRISTMAS  DINNER ,  .    66 

WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 80 

THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW 94 

RIP  VAN  WINKLE 130 


ii 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK; 


THE  AUTHOR'S  ACCOUNT  OF  HIMSELF. 

' '  /  am  of  this  mind  -with  Homer,  that  as  the  snaile  that  crept  out  of  her 
shel  was  turned  eftsoones  l  into  a  toad,  and  thereby  was  forced  to  make  a  stoole 
to  sit  on  ;  so  the  traveller  that  stragleth  from  his  owne  country  is  in  a  short 
time  transformed  into  so  monstrous  a  shape,  that  he  is  faine  to  alter  his  man- 
sion with  his  manners,  and  to  live  where  he  can,  not  where  he  would" 

LYLY'S  Euphues.a 

I  WAS  always  fond  of  visiting  new  scenes,  and  observing 
strange  characters  and  manners.  Even  when  a  mere  child  I 
began  my  travels,  and  made  many  tours  of  discovery  into  foreign 
parts  and  unknown  regions  of  my  native  city,  to  the  frequent 
alarm  of  my  parents,  and  the  emolument  of  the  town-crier.  As 
I  grew  into  boyhood,  I  extended  the  range  of  my  observations. 
My  holiday  afternoons  were  spent  in  rambles  about  the  surround- 
ing country.  I  made  myself  familiar  with  all  its  places  famous 
in  history  or  fable.  I  knew  every  spot  where  a  murder  or  rob- 
bery had  been  committed,  or  a  ghost  seen.  I  visited  the  neigh- 
boring villages,  and  added  greatly  to  my  stock  of  knowledge  by 
noting  their  habits  and  customs,  and  conversing  with  their  sages 
and  great  men.  I  even  journeyed  one  long  summer's  day  to  the 

1  Speedily ;  at  once. 

2  John  Lyly,  Lylie,  Lyllie,  or  Lilly  (1553-1609)  was  an  English  wit  and 
writer  of  Shakespeare's  time.      He  wrote  several  plays,  but  is  best  known 
from  his  novel  Euphues,  the  style  of  which  was  intended  to  reform  and  purify 
that  of  the  English  language.     This  book  immediately  became  the  rage  in  the 
court  circles,  and  for  many  years  was  the  court  standard 

13 


14  IRVING. 

summit  of  the  most  distant  hill,  from  whence  I  stretched  my  eye 
over  many  a  mile  of  terra  incognita,  and  was  astonished  to  find 
how  vast  a  globe  I  inhabited. 

This  rambling  propensity  strengthened  with  my  years.  Books 
of  voyages  and  travels  became  my  passion ;  and,  in  devouring 
their  contend,  T  neglected  the  regular  exercises  of  the  school. 
How  wistfully  would  I  wander  about  the  pier-heads  in  fine 
weather,  and  watch  the  parting  ships,  bound  to  distant  climes ! 
With  what  longing  eyes  would  I  gaze  after  their  lessening  sails, 
and  waft  myself  in  imagination  to  the  ends  of  the  earth! 

Further  reading  and  thinking,  though  they  brought  this  vague 
inclination  into  more  reasonable  bounds,  only  served  to  make  it 
more  decided.  I  visited  various  parts  of  my  own  country ;  and, 
had  I  been  merely  influenced  by  a  love  of  fine  scenery,  I  should 
have  felt  little  desire  to  seek  elsewhere  its  gratification,  for  on  no 
country  have  the  charms  of  Nature  been  more  prodigally  lavished. 
Her  mighty  lakes,  like  oceans  of  liquid  silver ;  her  mountains,  with 
their  bright  aerial  tints ;  her  valleys,  teeming  with  wild  fertility ; 
her  tremendous  cataracts,  thundering  in  their  solitudes;  her 
boundless  plains,  waving  with  spontaneous  verdure ;  her  broad, 
deep  rivers,  rolling  in  solemn  silence  to  the  ocean ;  her  track- 
less forests,  where  vegetation  puts  forth  all  its  magnificence ;  her 
skies,  kindling  with  the  magic  of  summer  clouds  and  glorious 
sunshine,  —  no,  never  need  an  American  look  beyond  his  own 
country  for  the  sublime  and  beautiful  of  natural  scenery. 

But  Europe  held  forth  all  the  charms  of  storied  and  poetical 
association.  There  were  to  be  seen  the  masterpieces  of  art,  the  re- 
finements of  highly  cultivated  society,  the  quaint  peculiarities  of 
ancient  and  local  custom.  My  native  country  was  full  of  youth- 
ful promise  :  Europe  was  rich  in  the  accumulated  treasures  of  age. 
Her  very  ruins  told  the  history  of  times  gone  by,  and  every  mold- 
ering  stone  was  a  chronicle.  I  longed  to  wander  over  the  scenes 
of  renowned  achievement ;  to  tread,  as  it  were,  in  the  footsteps 
of  antiquity ;  to  loiter  about  the  ruined  castle ;  to  meditate  on 
the  falling  tower;  to  escape,  in  short,  from  the  commonplace 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  15 

realities  of  the  present,  and  lose  myself  among  the  shadowy 
grandeurs  of  the  past. 

I  had,  beside  all  this,  an  earnest  desire  to  see  the  great  men 
of  the  earth.  We  have,  it  is  true,  our  great  men  in  America :  not 
a  city  but  has  an  ample  share  of  them.  I  have  mingled  among 
them  in  my  time,  and  been  almost  withered  by  the  shade  into 
which  they  cast  me ;  for  there  is  nothing  so  baleful  to  a  small 
man  as  the  shade  of  a  great  one,  particularly  the  great  man  of  a 
city.  But  I  was  anxious  to  see  the  great  men  of  Europe ;  for  I 
had  read  in  the  works  of  various  philosophers,  that  all  animals 
degenerated  in  America,  and  man  among  the  number.  A  great 
man  of  Europe,  thought  I,  must  therefore  be  as  superior  to  a 
great  man  of  America  as  a  peak  of  the  Alps  to  a  highland  of  the 
Hudson;  and  in  this  idea  I  was  confirmed  by  observing  the 
comparative  importance  and  swelling  magnitude  of  many  English 
travelers  among  us,  who,  I  was  assured,  were  very  little  people 
in  their  own  country.  I  will  visit  this  land  of  wonders,  thought 
I,  and  see  the  gigantic  race  from  which  I  am  degenerated. 

It  has  been  either  my  good  or  evil  lot  to  have  my  roving  pas- 
sion gratified.  ^  I  have  wandered  through  different  countries,  and 
witnessed  many  of  the  shifting  scenes  of  life.  I  cannot  say  that 
I  have  studied  them  with  the  eye  of  a  philosopher,  but  rather 
with  the  sauntering  gaze  with  which  humble  lovers  of  the  pictur- 
esque stroll  from  the  window  of  one  print-shop  to  another; 
caught  sometimes  by  the  delineations  of  beauty,  sometimes  by 
the  distortions  of  caricature,  and  sometimes  by  the  loveliness  of 
landscape.  As  it  is  the  fashion  for  modern  tourists  to  travel  pen- 
cil in  hand,  and  bring  home  their  portfolios  filled  with  sketches, 
I  am  disposed  to  get  up  a  few  for  the  entertainment  of  my 
friends.  When,  however,  I  look  over  the  hints  and  memoran- 
dums I  have  taken  down  for  the  purpose,  my  heart  almost  fails 
me  at  finding  how  my  idle  humor  has  led  me  aside  from  the  great 
objects  studied  by  every  regular  traveler  who  would  make  a 
book.  I  fear  I  shall  give  equal  disappointment  with  an  unlucky 
landscape  painter,  who  had  traveled  on  the  Continent,  but,  follow- 


1 6  IRVING. 

ing  the  bent  of  his  vagrant  inclination,  had  sketched  in  nooks 
and  corners  and  by-places.  His  sketch-book  was  accordingly 
crowded  with  cottages  and  landscapes  and  obscure  ruins ;  but  he 
had  neglected  to  paint  St.  Peter's 1  or  the  Colosseum,2  the  cas- 
cade of  Terni3  or  the  Bay  of  Naples,4  and  had  not  a  single  gla- 
cier or  volcano  in  his  whole  collection. 


THE   VOYAGE. 

"Ships,  ships,  I  will  descrie  you 

Amidst  the  main, 
I  will  come  and  try  you, 
What  you  are  protecting, 
And  projecting, 

Whafs  your  end  and  aim. 
One  goes  abroad  for  merchandise  and  trading, 
Another  stays  to  keep  his  country  from  invading, 
A  third  is  coming  home  with  rich  and  wealthy  lading, 
Hallo !  my  fancie,  whither  wilt  thou  go?" 

OLD  POEM. 

TO  an  American  visiting  Europe,  the  long  voyage  he  has  to 
make  is  an  excellent  preparative.     The  temporary  absence 
of  worldly  scenes  and  employments  produces  a  state  of  mind  pe- 
culiarly fitted  to  receive  new  and  vivid  impressions.     The  vast 
space  of  waters  that  separates  the  hemispheres  is  like  a  blank 

'  1  The  Church  of  St.  Peter  in  Rome  is  built  upon  the  site  of  the  religious 
edifice  erected  in  the  time  of  Constantine  (306),  and  consecrated  as  the  "  Ba- 
silica of  St.  Peter." 

2  A  vast  amphitheater  in  Rome,  begun  by  the  Emperor  Vespasian,  A.  D.  72, 
and  dedicated  A.D.  80.     For  nearly  five  hundred  years  it  was  the  popular 
resort  of  Rome.     In  the  year  555  the  whole  of  the  city  was  overflowed  by  the 
Tiber,  and  the  lower  part  of  the  Colosseum  was  then  destroyed. 

3  A  town  of  Italy  in  the  province  of  Perugia,  noted  for  the  Falls  of  Velino, 
which,  for  volume  and  beauty,  take  a  very  high  place  among  European 
waterfalls. 

x,4  No  other  place  in  the  world  combines  within  the  same  compass  so  much 
natural  beauty  with  so  many  objects  of  interest  to  the  antiquary,  the  historian, 
and  the  geologist,  as  the  Bay  of  Naples. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  I^ 

page  in  existence.  There  is  no  gradual  transition,  by  which,  as 
in  Europe,  the  features  and  population  of  one  country  blend 
almost  imperceptibly  with  those  of  another.  From  the  moment 
you  lose  sight  of  the  land  you  have  left,  all  is  vacancy  until  you 
step  on  the  opposite  shore,  and  are  launched  at  once  into  the 
bustle  and  novelties  of  another  world. 

In  traveling  by  land  there  is  a  continuity  of  scene,  and  a  con- 
nected succession  of  persons  and  incidents,  that  carry  on  the 
story  of  life,  and  lessen  the  effect  of  absence  and  separation. 
We  drag,  it  is  true,  "a  lengthening  chain"1  at  each  remove  of 
our  pilgrimage  ;  but  the  chain  is  unbroken :  we  can  trace  it  back 
link  by  link ;  and  we  feel  that  the  last  of  them  still  grapples  us  to 
home.  But  a  wide  sea  voyage  severs  us  at  once.  It  makes  us 
conscious  of  being  cast  loose  from  the  secure  anchorage  of  settled 
life,  and  sent  adrift  upon  a  doubtful  world.  It  interposes  a  gulf, 
not  merely  imaginary,  but  real,  between  us  and  our  homes,  —  a 
gulf  subject  to  tempest  and  fear  and  uncertainty,  that  makes  dis- 
tance palpable,  and  return  precarious. 

Such,  at  least,  was  the  case  with  myself.  As  I  saw  the  last 
blue  line  of  my  native  land  fade  away  like  a  cloud  in  the  horizon, 
it  seemed  as  if  I  had  closed  one  volume  of  the  world  and  its  con- 
cerns, and  had  time  for  meditation  before  I  opened  another. 
That  land,  too,  now  vanishing  from  my  view,  which  contained  all 
that  was  most  dear  to  me  in  life,  —  what  Vicissitudes  might  occur 
in  it,  what  changes  might  take  place  in  me,  before  I  should  visit 
it  again !  Who  can  tell,  when  he  sets  forth  to  wander,  whither  he 
may  be  driven  by  the  uncertain  currents  of  existence,  or  when  he 
may  return,  or  whether  it  may  be  ever  his  lot  to  revisit  the  scenes 
of  his  childhood? 

I  said  that  at  sea  all  is  vacancy.     I  should  correct  the  expres- 

1  Goldsmith's  Traveller,  line  10.  Better  explained  in  the  first  paragraph 
of  his  third  letter  in  Citizen  of  the  World;  i.e.,  "  The  farther  I  travel  I  feel 
the  pain  of  separation  with  stronger  force :  those  ties  that  bind  me  to  my  na- 
tive country  and  you,  are  still  unbroken.  By  every  move  I  only  drag  a 
greater  length  of  chain." 
2 


1 8  IRVING. 

sion.  To  one  given  to  day-dreaming,  and  fond  of  losing  himself 
in  reveries,  a  sea  voyage  is  full  of  subjects  for  meditation ;  but 
then  they  are  the  wonders  of  the  deep  and  of  the  air,  and  rather 
tend  to  abstract  the  mind  from  worldly  themes.  I  delighted  to 
loll  over  the  quarter  railing,  or  climb  to  the  maintop,  of  a  calm 
day,  and  muse  for  hours  together  on  the  tranquil  bosom  of  a  sum- 
mer's sea ;  to  gaze  upon  the  piles  of  golden  clouds  just  peering 
above  the  horizon,  fancy  them  some  fairy  realms,  and  people 
them  with  a  creation  of  my  own ;  to  watch  the  gentle,  undulat, 
ing  billows,  rolling  their  silver  volumes,  as  if  to  die  away  on  those 
happy  shores./ 

There  was  a  delicious  sensation  of  mingled  security  and  awe 
with  which  I  looked  down,  from  my  giddy  height,  on  the  mon- 
sters of  the  deep  at  their  uncouth  gambols,  —  shoals  of  porpoises, 
tumbling  about  the  bow  of  the  ship  ;  the  grampus,  slowly  heaving 
his  huge  form  above  the  surface  ;  or  the  ravenous  shark,  darting, 
like  a  specter,  through  the  blue  waters.  My  imagination  would 
conjure  up  all  that  I  had  heard  or  read  of  the  watery  world  be- 
neath me,  —  of  the  finny  herds  that  roam  its  fathomless  valleys, 
of  the  shapeless  monsters  that  lurk  among  the  very  foundations 
of  the  earth,  and  of  those  wild  phantasms  that  swell  the  tales  of 
fishermen  and  sailors. 

Sometimes  a  distant  sail,  gliding  along  the  edge  of  the  ocean, 
would  be  another  theme  of  idle  speculation.  How  interesting 
this  fragment  of  a  world,  hastening  to  rejoin  the  great  mass  of 
existence !  What  a  glorious  monument  of  human  invention,  that 
has  thus  triumphed  over  wind  and  wave ;  has  brought  the  ends 
of  the  world  into  communion ;  has  established  an  interchange  of 
blessings,  pouring  into  the  sterile  regions  of  the  north  all  the  lux- 
uries of  the  south ;  has  diffused  the  light  of  knowledge  and  the 
charities  of  cultivated  life  ;  and  has  thus  bound  together  those  scat- 
tered portions  of  the  human  race  between  which  Nature  seemed 
to  have  thrown  an  insurmountable  barrier. 

We  one  day  descried  some  shapeless  object  drifting  at  a  dis- 
tance. At  sea  everything  that  breaks  the  monotony  of  the  sur- 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  19 

rounding  expanse  attracts  attention.  It  proved  to  be  the  mast 
of  a  ship  that  must  have  been  completely  wrecked ;  for  there 
were  the  remains  of  handkerchiefs,  by  which  some  of  the  crew 
had  fastened  themselves  to  this  spar,  to  prevent  their  being 
washed  off  by  the  waves.  There  was  no  trace  by  which  the 
name  of  the  ship  could  be  ascertained.  The  wreck  had  evi- 
dently drifted  about  for  many  months.  Clusters  of  shell-fish  had 
fastened  about  it,  and  long  seaweeds  flaunted  at  its  sides.  But 
where,  thought  I,  is  the  crew?  Their  struggle  has  long  been 
over ;  they  have  gone  down  amidst  the  roar  of  the  tempest ; 
their  bones  lie  whitening  among  the  caverns  of  the  deep.  Si- 
lence, oblivion,  like  the  waves,  have  closed  over  them,  and  no 
one  can  tell  the  story  of  their  end.  What  sighs  have  been  wafted 
after  that  ship !  what  prayers  offered  up  at  the  deserted  fireside 
of  home!  How  often  has  the  mistress,  the  wife,  the  mother, 
pored  over  the  daily  news  to  catch  some  casual  intelligence  of 
this  rover  of  the  deep!  How  has  expectation  darkened  into 
anxiety,  anxiety  into  dread,  and  dread  into  despair!  Alas!  not 
one  memento  shall  ever  return  for  love  to  cherish.  All  that  shall 
ever  be  known,  is  that  she  sailed  from  her  port,  "  and  was  never 
heard  of  more." 

The  sight  of  this  wreck,  as  usual,  gave  rise  to  many  dismal 
anecdotes.  This  was  particularly  the  case  in  the  evening,  when 
the  weather,  which  had  hitherto  been  fair,  began  to  look  wild 
and  threatening,  and  gave  indications  of  one  of  those  sudden 
storms  that  will  sometimes  break  in  upon  the  serenity  of  a  sum- 
mer voyage.  As  we  sat  round  the  dull  light  of  a  lamp  in  the 
cabin,  that  made  the  gloom  more  ghastly,  every  one  had  his  tale 
of  shipwreck  and  disaster.  I  was  particularly  struck  with  a  short 
one  related  by  the  captain. 

"As  I  was  once  sailing,"  said  he,  "in  a  fine  stout  ship  across 
the  Banks  of  Newfoundland,1  one  of  those  heavy  fogs  that  pre- 
vail in  those  parts  rendered  it  impossible  for  us  to  see  far  ahead 

1  The  shoals  to  the  southeast  of  the  Island  of  Newfoundland,  a  great  re- 
sort for  fishermen. 


20  IRVING. 

even  in  the  daytime ;  but  at  night  the  weather  was  so  thick  that 
we  could  not  distinguish  any  object  at  twice  the  length  of  the 
ship.  I  kept  lights  at  the  mast-head,  and  a  constant  watch  for- 
ward to  look  out  for  fishing-smacks,  which  are  accustomed  to  lie 
at  anchor  on  the  Banks.  The  wind  was  blowing  a  smacking 
breeze,  and  we  were  going  at  a  great  rate  through  the  water. 
Suddenly  the  watch  gave  the  alarm  of  'A  sail  ahead!'  It  was 
scarcely  uttered  before  we  were  upon  her.  She  was  a  small 
schooner,  at  anchor,  with  her  broadside  toward  us.  The  crew 
were  all  asleep,  and  had  neglected  to  hoist  a  light.  We  struck 
her  just  amidships.  The  force,  the  size,  and  weight  of  our  vessel 
bore  her  down  below  the  waves.  We  passed  over  her,  and  were 
hurried  on  our  course.  As  the  crashing  wreck  was  sinking  be- 
neath us,  I  had  a  glimpse  of  two  or  three  half-naked  wretches 
rushing  from  her  cabin.  They  just  started  from  their  beds,  to  be 
swallowed,  shrieking,  by  the  waves.  I  heard  their  drowning  cry 
mingling  with  the  wind.  The  blast  that  bore  it  to  our  ears  swept 
us  out  of  all  further  hearing.  I  shall  never  forget  that  cry.  It 
was  some  time  before  we  could  put  the  ship  about,  she  was  under 
such  headway.  We  returned,  as  nearly  as  we  could  guess,  to 
the  place  where  the  smack  had  anchored.  We  cruised  about  for 
several  hours  in  the  dense  fog.  We  fired  signal  guns,  and  lis- 
tened if  we  might  hear  the  halloo  of  any  survivors ;  but  all  was 
silent.  We  never  saw  or  heard  anything  of  them  more." 

I  confess  these  stories,  for  a  time,  put  an  end  to  all  my  fine 
fancies.  The  storm  increased  with  the  night.  The  sea  was 
lashed  into  tremendous  confusion.  There  was  a  fearful,  sullen 
sound  of  rushing  waves  and  broken  surges.  Deep  called  unto 
deep.  At  times  the  black  volume  of  clouds  overhead  seemed 
rent  asunder  by  flashes  of  lightning  that  quivered  along  the 
foaming  billows,  and  made  the  succeeding  darkness  doubly  terri- 
ble. The  thunders  bellowed  over  the  wild  waste  of  waters,  and 
were  echoed  and  prolonged  by  the  mountain  waves.  As  I  saw 
the  ship  staggering  and  plunging  among  these  roaring  caverns,  it 
seemed  miraculous  that  she  regained  her  balance,  or  preserved 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  21 

her  buoyancy.  Her  yards  would  dip  into  the  water.  Her  bow 
was  almost  buried  beneath  the  waves.  Sometimes  an  impend- 
ing surge  appeared  ready  to  overwhelm  her,  and  nothing  but  a 
dexterous  movement  of  the  helm  preserved  her  from  the  shock. 

When  I  retired  to  my  cabin,  the  awful  scene  still  followed  me. 
The  whistling  of  the  wind  through  the  rigging  sounded  like  fune- 
real wailings.  The  creaking  of  the  masts,  the  straining  and 
groaning  of  bulk-heads,  as  the  ship  labored  in  the  weltering  sea, 
were  frightful.  As  I  heard  the  waves  rushing  along  the  side  of 
the  ship,  and  roaring  in  my  very  ear,  it  seemed  as  if  Death  were 
raging  round  this  floating  prison,  seeking  for  his  prey.  The 
mere  starting  of  a  nail,  the  yawning  of  a  seam,  might  give  him 
entrance. 

A  fine  day,  however,  with  a  tranquil  sea  and  favoring  breeze, 
soon  put  all  these  dismal  reflections  to  flight.  It  is  impossible  to 
resist  the  gladdening  influence  of  fine  weather  and  fair  wind  at 
sea.  When  the  ship  is  decked  out  in  all  her  canvas,  every  sail 
swelled,  and  careering  gayly  over  the  curling  waves,  how  lofty, 
how  gallant,  she  appears!  How  she  seems  to  lord  it  over  the 
deep!  I  might  fill  a  volume  with  the  reveries  of  a  sea  voyage, 
—  for  with  me  it  is  almost  a  continual  reverie,  —  but  it  is  time  to 
get  to  shore. 

It  was  a  fine,  sunny  morning  when  the  thrilling  cry  of  "  Land ! " 
was  given  from  the  mast-head.  None  but  those  who  have  expe- 
rienced it  can  form  an  idea  of  the  delicious  throng  of  sensations 
which  rush  into  an  American's  bosom  when  he  first  comes  in 
sight  of  Europe.  There  is  a  volume  of  associations  with  the  very 
name.  It  is  the  land  of  promise,  teeming  with  everything  of 
which  his  childhood  has  heard,  or  on  which  his  studious  years 
have  pondered. 

From  that  time  until  the  moment  of  arrival,  it  was  all  feverish 
excitement.  The  ships  of  war,  that  prowled  like  guardian  giants 
along  the  coast ;  the  headlands  of  Ireland,  stretching  out  into 
the  Channel;  the  Welsh  mountains,  towering  into  the  clouds, — 
all  were  objects  of  intense  interest.  As  we  sailed  up  the  Mer- 


22  IRVING. 

sey,1  I  reconnoitered  the  shores  with  a  telescope.  My  eye  dwelt 
with  delight  on  neat  cottages,  with  their  trim  shrubberies  and 
green  grass  plots.  I  saw  the  moldering  ruin  of  an  abbey  overrun 
with  ivy,  and  the  taper  spire  of  a  village  church  rising  from  the 
brow  of  a  neighboring  hill.  All  were  characteristic  of  England. 

The  tide  and  wind  were  so  favorable  that  the  ship  was  enabled 
to  come  at  once  to  the  pier.  It  was  thronged  with  people, — 
some  idle  lookers-on,  others  eager  expectants  of  friends  or  rela- 
tives. I  could  distinguish  the  merchant  to  whom  the  ship  was 
consigned.  I  knew  him  by  his  calculating  brow  and  restless  air. 
His  hands  were  thrust  into  his  pockets.  He  was  whistling 
thoughtfully,  and  walking  to  and  fro,  a  small  space  having  been 
accorded  him  by  the  crowd,  in  deference  to  his  temporary  im- 
portance. There  were  repeated  cheerings  and  salutations  inter- 
changed between  the  shore  and  the  ship  as  friends  happened  to 
recognize  each  other.  I  particularly  noticed  one  young  woman 
of  humble  dress  but  interesting  demeanor.  She  was  leaning  for- 
ward from  among  the  crowd.  Her  eye  hurried  over  the  ship  as 
it  neared  the  shore,  to  catch  some  wished-for  countenance.  She 
seemed  disappointed  and  agitated,  when  I  heard  a  faint  voice 
call  her  name.  It  was  from  a  poor  sailor  who  had  been  ill  all 
the  voyage,  and  had  excited  the  sympathy  of  every  one  on  board. 
When  the  weather  was  fine,  his  messmates  had  spread  a  mattress 
for  him  on  deck  in  the  shade ;  but  of  late  his  illness  had  so 
increased,  that  he  had  taken  to  his  hammock,  and  only  breathed 
a  wish  that  he  might  see  his  wife  before  he  died.  He  had  been 
helped  on  deck  as  we  came  up  the  river,  and  was  now  leaning 
against  the  shrouds,  with  a  countenance  so  wasted,  so  pale,  so 
ghastly,  that  it  was  no  wonder  even  the  eye  of  affection  did  not 
recognize  him.  But  at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  her  eye  darted  on 
his  features.  It  read  at  once  a  whole  volume  of  sorrow.  She 
clasped  her  hands,  uttered  a  faint  shriek,  and  stood  wringing 
them  in  silent  agony. 

1  A  river  in  the  county  of  Lancaster,  England,  which  opens  into  a  fine 
estuary  before  reaching  the  sea  at  Liverpool. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  23 

All  now  was  hurry  and  bustle,  —  the  meetings  of  acquaint- 
ances, the  greetings  of  friends,  the  consultations  of  men  of  busi- 
ness. I  alone  was  solitary  and  idle.  I  had  no  friend  to  meet,  no 
cheering  to  receive.  I  stepped  upon  the  land  of  my  forefathers, 
but  felt  that  I  was  a  stranger  in  the  land. 


CHRISTMAS.1 

"  But  is  old,  old,  good  old  Christmas  gone  ?  Nothing  but  the  hair  of  his 
good,  gray,  old  head  and  beard  left  ?  Well,  I  will  have  that,  seeing  I  cannot 
have  more  of  him"  —  HUE  AND  CRY  AFTER  CHRISTMAS. 

"  A  man  might  then  behold 

At  Christmas,  in  each  hall, 
Good  fires  to  curb  the  cold, 

And  meat  for  great  and  small. 
The  neighbors  were  friendly  bidden, 

And  all  had  welcome  true, 
The  poor  from  the  gates  were  not  chidden, 
When  this  old  cap  was  new." 

OLD  SoNG.a 

THERE  is  nothing  in  England  that  exercises  a  more  delight- 
ful spell  over  my  imagination  than  the  lingerings  of  the 
holiday  customs  and  rural  games  of  former  times.  They  recall 
the  pictures  my  fancy  used  to  draw  in  the  May  morning  of  life, 
when  as  yet  I  only  knew  the  world  through  books,  and  believed 
it  to  be  all  that  poets  had  painted  it ;  and  they  bring  with  them 
the  flavor  of  those  honest  days  of  yore,  in  which,  perhaps,  with 
equal  fallacy,  I  am  apt  to  think  the  world  was  more  homebred, 
social,  and  joyous  than  at  present.  I  regret  to  say  that  they  are 
daily  growing  more  and  more  faint,  being  gradually  worn  away 

1  Christ  and  Mass  (Anglo-Saxon  Maessa,  "a  holy  day  or  feast"),  the 
Christian  festival  of  the  Nativity.     The  festival  properly  begins  on  the  even- 
ing of  Dec.  24,  and  lasts  until  Epiphany,  Jan.  6,  the  whole  being  termed 
"Christmas-tide."     Dec.  2$, however,  is  the  day  more  specifically  observed. 

2  From  Guild  Hall  Giants,  by  Thomas  Hood,  a  famous  English  humorist 
and  popular  author  (born  in  London,  1798;  died,  1845). 


24  IRVING. 

by  time,  but  still  more  obliterated  by  modern  fashion.  They  re- 
semble those  picturesque  morsels  of  Gothic  architecture  which 
we  see  crumbling  in  various  parts  of  the  country,  partly  dilapi- 
dated by  the  waste  of  ages,  and  partly  lost  in  the  additions  and 
alterations  of  latter  days.  Poetry,  however,  clings  with  cherish- 
ing fondness  about  the  rural  game  and  holiday  revel,  from  which 
it  has  derived  so  many  of  its  themes,  —  as  the  ivy  winds  its  rich 
foliage  about  the  Gothic  arch  and  moldering  tower,  gratefully 
repaying  their  support  by  clasping  together  their  tottering  re- 
mains, and,  as  it  were,  embalming  them  in  verdure. 

Of  all  the  old  festivals,  however,  that  of  Christmas  awakens 
the  strongest  and  most  heartfelt  associations.  There  is  a  tone 
of  solemn  and  sacred  feeling  that  blends  with  our  conviviality, 
and  lifts  the  spirit  to  a  state  of  hallowed  and  elevated  enjoyment. 
The  services  of  the  church  about  this  season  are  extremely  tender 
and  inspiring.  They  dwell  on  the  beautiful  story  of  the  origin  of 
our  faith,  and  the  pastoral  scenes  that  accompanied  its  announce- 
ment. They  gradually  increase  in  fervor  and  pathos  during  the 
season  of  Advent,1  until  they  break  forth  in  full  jubilee  on  the 
morning  that  brought  peace  and  good  will  to  men.2  I  do  not 
know  a  grander  effect  of  music  on  the  moral  feelings  than  to 
hear  the  full  choir  and  the  pealing  organ  performing  a  Christmas 
anthem  in  a  cathedral,  and  filling  every  part  of  the  vast  pile  with 
triumphant  harmony. 

It  is  a  beautiful  arrangement,  also,  derived  from  days  of  yore, 
that  this  festival,  which  commemorates  the  announcement  of  the 
religion  of  peace  and  love,  lias  been  made  the  season  for  gather- 
ing together  of  family  connections,  and  drawing  closer  again  those 

1  The  season  of  moral  and  religious  preparation,  between  St.  Andrew's 
Day  (Nov.  30)  and  Christmas.     Its  observance  dates  from  the  fourth  cen- 
tury, and  from  the  sixth  century  it  has  been  recognized  as  the  beginning  of 
the  ecclesiastical   year.     At  one  time  it  was  observed  as   strictly  as  Lent. 
Advent  fasting  is  now  confined  to  the  week  in  which  Ember  Day  (Dec.  13) 
occurs. 

2  No  war  was  declared,  and  no  capital  executions  were  permitted  to  take 
place,  during  this  season  of  good  will. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  25 

bands  of  kindred  hearts  which  the  cares  and  pleasures  and  sor- 
rows of  the  world  are  continually  operating  to  cast  loose;  of 
calling  back  the  children  of  a  family,  who  have  launched  forth  in 
life,  and  wandered  widely  asunder,  once  more  to  assemble  about 
the  paternal  hearth,  that  rallying-place  of  the  affections,  there  to 
grow  young  and  loving  again  among  the  endearing  mementos  of 
childhood. 

There  is  something  in  the  very  season  of  the  year  that  gives  a 
charm  to  the  festivity  of  Christmas.  At  other  times  we  derive  a 
great  portion  of  our  pleasures  from  the  mere  beauties  of  nature. 
Our  feelings  sally  forth  and  dissipate  themselves  over  the  sunny 
landscape,  and  we  "  live  abroad  and  everywhere."  The  song  of 
the  bird ;  the  murmur  of  the  stream ;  the  breathing  fragrance  of 
spring ;  the  soft  voluptuousness  of  summer ;  the  golden  pomp  of 
autumn  ;  earth,  with  its  mantle  of  refreshing  green ;  and  heaven, 
with  its  deep,  delicious  blue  and  its  cloudy  magnificence,  —  all  fill 
us  with  mute  but  exquisite  delight,  and  we  revel  in  the  luxury  of 
mere  sensation.  But  in  the  depth  of  winter,  when  Nature  lies 
despoiled  of  every  charm,  and  wrapped  in  her  shroud  of  sheeted 
snow,  we  turn  for  our  gratifications  to  moral  sources.  The  dreari- 
ness and  desolation  of  the  landscape,  the  short,  gloomy  days  and 
darksome  nights,  while  they  circumscribe  our  wanderings,  shut  in 
our  feelings  also  from  rambling  abroad,  and  make  us  more  keenly 
disposed  for  the  pleasures  of  the  social  circle.  Our  thoughts  are 
more  concentrated,  our  friendly  sympathies  more  aroused.  We 
feel  more  sensibly  the  charm  of  each  other's  society,  and  are 
brought  more  closely  together  by  dependence  on  each  other  for 
enjoyment.  Heart  calleth  unto  heart;  and . we  draw  our  pleas- 
ures from  the  deep  wells  of  living  kindness,  which  lie  in  the  quiet 
recesses  of  our  bosoms,  and  which,  when  resorted  to,  furnish 
forth  the  pure  element  of  domestic  felicity. 

The  pitchy  gloom  without  makes  the  heart  dilate  on  enter- 
ing the  room  filled  with  the  glow  and  warmth  of  the  evening 
fire.  The  ruddy  blaze  diffuses  an  artificial  summer  and  sunshine 
through  the  room,  and  lights  up  each  countenance  into  a  kindlier 


26  IRVING. 

welcome.  Where  does  the  honest  face  of  hospitality  expand  into 
a  broader  and  more  cordial  smile,  where  is  the  shy  glance  of 
love  more  sweetly  eloquent,  than  by  the  winter  fireside?  and  as 
the  hollow  blast  of  wintry  wind  rushes  through  the  hall,  claps  the 
distant  door,  whistles  about  the  casement,  and  rumbles  down  the 
chimney,  what  can  be  more  grateful  than  that  feeling  of  sober 
and  sheltered  security  with  which  we  look  round  upon  the  com- 
fortable chamber  and  the  scene  of  domestic  hilarity? 

The  English,  from  the  great  prevalence  of  rural  habits  through- 
out every  class  of  society,  have  always  been  fond  of  those  festi- 
vals and  holidays  which  agreeably  interrupt  the  stillness  of  coun- 
try life,  and  they  were  in  former  days  particularly  observant  of 
the  religious  and  social  rites  of  Christmas.1  It  is  inspiring  to 
read  even  the  dry  details  which  some  antiquaries  have  given  of 
the  quaint  humors,  the  burlesque  pageants,  the  complex  aban- 
donment to  mirth  and  good-fellowship,  with  which  this  festival 
was  celebrated.  It  seemed  to  throw  open  every  door,  and  un- 
lock every  heart.  It  brought  the  peasant  and  the  peer  together, 
and  blended  all  ranks  in  one  warm  generous  flow  of  joy  and 
kindness.2  The  old  halls  of  castles  and  manor-houses  resounded 
with  the  harp  and  the  Christmas  carol,3  and  their  ample  boards 
groaned  under  the  weight  of  hospitality.  Even  the  poorest  cot- 
tage welcomed  the  festive  season  with  green  decorations  of  bay 4 

1  Christmas  Day,  in  the  primitive  Church,  was  always  observed  as  the 
sabbath  day,  and,  like  that,  preceded  by  an  eve  or  vigil :  hence  our  present 
Christmas  Eve. 

2  In  farmhouses  in  the  north  of  England  the  servants  used  to  lay  a  large 
knotty  block  for   their  Christmas  fire,  and  during  the  time  it  lasted  they 
were  entitled  by  custom  to  ale  at  their  meals. 

3  The  well-known  hymn,  "  Gloria  in  Excelsis,"  sung  by  the  angels  to  the 
shepherds  at  our  Lord's  nativity,  was  the  earliest  Christmas  carol.     We  next 
hear  of  one  sung  in  the  thirteenth  century.     It  is  in  the  British  Museum,  and 
written  in  Anglo-Norman. 

4  Since  the  days  of  the  ancient  Romans,  this  tree,  a  species  of  laurel,  the 
aromatic  leaves  of  which  are  often  found  packed  with  figs,  has  at  all  times 
been  dedicated  to  all  purposes  of  joyous  commemoration ;  and  its  branches 
have  been  used  as  the  emblems  of  peace,  victory,  and  joy. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  27 

and  holly.1  The  cheerful  fire  glanced  its  rays  through  the  lat- 
tice, inviting  the  passenger  to  raise  the  latch,  and  join  the  gossip 
knot  huddled  round  the  hearth,  beguiling  the  long  evening  with 
legendary  jokes  and  oft-told  Christmas  tales. 

One  of  the  least  pleasing  effects  of  modern  refinement  is  the 
havoc  it  has  made  among  the  hearty  old  holiday  customs.  It 
has  completely  taken  off  the  sharp  touchings  and  spirited  reliefs 
of  these  embellishments  of  life,  and  has  worn  down  society  into 
a  more  smooth  and  polished,  but  certainly  a  less  characteristic 
surface.  Many  of  the  games  and  ceremonials  of  Christmas  have 
entirely  disappeared,  and,  like  the  sherris  sack  of  old  Falstaff,2  are 
become  matters  of  speculation  and  dispute  among  commentators. 
They  flourished  in  times  full  of  spirit  and  lustihood,  when  men  en- 
joyed life  roughly,  but  heartily  and  vigorously,  —  times  wild  and 
picturesque,  which  have  furnished  poetry  with  its  richest  materi- 
als, and  the  drama  with  its  most  attractive  variety  of  characters  and 
manners.  The  world  has  become  more  worldly.  There  is  more 
of  dissipation,  and  less  of  enjoyment.  Pleasure  has  expanded  into 
a  broader  but  a  shallower  stream,  and  has  forsaken  many  of  those 
deep  and  quiet  channels  where  it  flowed  sweetly  through  the  calm 
bosom  of  domestic  life.  Society  has  acquired  a  more  enlightened 
and  elegant  tone ;  but  it  has  lost  many  of  its  strong  local  peculi- 
arities, its  home-bred  feelings,  its  honest  fireside  delights.  The 
traditionary  customs  of  golden-hearted  antiquity,  its  feudal  hospi- 
talities, and  lordly  wassailings,  have  passed  away  with  the  baroni- 
al castles  and  stately  manor-houses  in  which  they  were  celebrated. 
They  comported  with  the  shadowy  hall,  the  great  oaken  gallery, 
and  the  tapestried  parlor,  but  are  unfitted  for  the  light,  showy 
saloons  and  gay  drawing-rooms  of  the  modern  villa.3 

1  A  plant  of  the  genus  Ilex.     The  common  holly  grows  from  twenty  to 
thirty  feet  in  height.     It  is  especially  used  about  Christmas  time  to  decorate 
the  inside  of  houses  and  churches,  —  a  relic,  it  is  thought,  of  Druidism. 

2  Second  Henry  IV.,  act  iv.  sc.  3. 

3  In  1589  an  order  was  issued  to  the  gentlemen  of  Norfolk  and  Suffolk, 
commanding  them  "  to  depart  from  London  before  Christmas,  and  to  repair 
to  their  country  homes,  there  to  keep  hospitality  amongst  their  neighbors." 


28  IRVING. 

Shorn,  however,  as  it  is,  of  its  ancient  and  festive  honors, 
Christmas  is  still  a  period  of  delightful  excitement  in  England. 
It  is  gratifying  to  see  that  home  feeling  completely  aroused 
which  holds  so  powerful  a  place  in  every  English  bosom.  The 
preparations  making  on  every  side  for  the  social  board  that  is 
again  to  unite  friends  and  kindred ;  the  presents 1  of  good  cheer 
passing  and  repassing,  those  tokens  uf  regard,  and  quickeners 
of  kind  feelings ;  the  evergreens  distributed  about  houses  and 
churches,  emblems  of  peace  and  gladness,  —  all  these  have  the 
most  pleasing  effect  in  producing  fond  associations,  and  kindling 
benevolent  sympathies.  Even  the  sound  of  the  waits,2  rude  as 
may  be  their  minstrelsy,  breaks  upon  the  mid-watches  of  a  winter 
night  with  the  effect  of  perfect  harmony.  As  I  have  been 
awakened  by  them  in  that  still  and  solemn  hour  "  when  deep  sleep 
falleth  upon  man,"  I  have  listened  with  a  hushed  delight,  and, 
connecting  them  with  the  sacred  and  joyous  occasion,  have 
almost  fancied  them  into  another  celestial  choir,3  announcing 
peace  and  good  will  to  mankind.  How  delightfully  the  imagina- 
tion, when  wrought  upon  by  these  moral  influences,  turns  every- 
thing to  melody  and  beauty!  The  very  crowing  of  the  cock, 
heard  sometimes  in  the  profound  repose  of  the  country,  "  telling 
the  night  watches  to  his  feathery  dames,"  was  thought  by  the 
common  people  to  announce  the  approach  of  this  sacred  festival. 

"  Some  say  that  ever  'gainst  that  season  comes 
Wherein  our  Saviour's  birth  is  celebrated, 
The  bird  of  dawning  singeth  all  night  long : 
And  then,  they  say,  no  spirit  dare  stir  abroad ; 
The  nights  are  wholesome ;  then  no  planets  strike, 
No  fairy  takes,  no  witch  hath  power  to  charm, 
So  hallowed  and  so  gracious  is  the  time."* 

1  The  practice  of  giving  presents  at  Christmas  was  undoubtedly  founded  on 
the  Pagan  custom  of  New-Year's  gifts,  with  which  in  these  times  it  is  blended. 

2  Or  wayte,  originally  a  kind  of  night-watchman  who  sounded  the  hours 
of  his  watch,  and  guarded  the  streets ;  later,  a  musician  who  sang  out  of 
doors  at  Christmas  time,  going  from  house  to  house. 

3  Luke  ii.  13,  14.  4  Hamlet,  act  i.  sc.  I. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  29 

Amidst  the  general  call  to  happiness,  the  bustle  of  the  spirits, 
and  stir  of  the  affections,  which  prevail  at  this  period,  what  bosom 
can  remain  insensible?  It  is,  indeed,  the  season  of  regenerated 
feeling,  —  the  season  for  kindling,  not  merely  the  fire  of  hospi- 
tality in  the  hall,  but  the  genial  flame  of  charity  in  the  heart. 
The  scene  of  early  love  again  rises  green  to  memory  beyond 
the  sterile  waste  of  years ;  and  the  idea  of  home,  fraught  with  the 
fragrance  of  home-dwelling  joys,  reanimates  the  drooping  spirit, 
as  the  Arabian  breeze  will  sometimes  waft  the  freshness  of  the 
distant  fields  to  the  weary  pilgrim  of  the  desert. 

Stranger  and  sojourner  as  I  am  in  the  land, —  though  for  me  no 
social  hearth  may  blaze,  no  hospitable  roof  throw  open  its  doors, 
nor  the  warm  grasp  of  friendship  welcome  me  at  the  chreshold, 
— yet  I  feel  the  influence  of  the  season  beaming  into  my  soul 
from  the  happy  looks  of  those  around  me.  Surely  happiness  is 
reflective,  like  the  light  of  heaven ;  and  every  countenance,  bright 
with  smiles,  and  glowing  with  innocent  enjoyment,  is  a  mirror 
transmitting  to  others  the  rays  of  a  supreme  and  ever-shining  be- 
nevolence. He  who  can  turn  churlishly  away  from  contemplat- 
ing the  felicity  of  his  fellow-beings,  and  can  sit  down  darkling 
and  repining  in  his  loneliness  when  all  around  is  joyful,  may  have 
his  moments  of  strong  excitement  and  selfish  gratification,  but 
he  wants  the  genial  and  social  sympathies  which  constitute  the 
charm  of  a  merry  Christmas. 


30  IRVING. 


THE    STAGECOACH. 

"  Omne  bene 

Sine  pcend 

Tempus  est  ludendi 

Venit  hora 

Absque  mord 

Libros  deponendi."  * 

OLD  HOLIDAY  SCHOOL  SONG. 

IN  the  preceding  paper  I  have  made  some  general  observations 
on  the  Christmas  festivities  of  England,  and  am  tempted  to 
illustrate  them  by  some  anecdotes  of  a  Christmas  passed  in  the 
country ;  in  perusing  which  I  would  most  courteously  invite  my 
reader  to  lay  aside  the  austerity  of  wisdom,  and  to  put  on  that 
genuine  holiday  spirit  which  is  tolerant  of  folly,  and  anxious  only 
for  amusement. .___ 

In  the  course  of  a  December  tour  in  Yorkshire,2  I  rode  for  a 
long  distance  in  one  of  the  public  coaches  on  the  day  preceding 
Christmas.  The  coach  was  crowded,  both  inside  and  out,  with 
passengers,  who,  by  their  talk,  seemed  principally  bound  to  the 
mansions  of  relations  or  friends,  to  eat  the  Christmas  dinner.  It 
was  loaded  also  with  hampers  of  game,  and  baskets  and  boxes  of 
delicacies ;  and  hares  hung  dangling  their  long  ears  about  the 
coachman's  box,  presents  from  distant  friends  for  the  impending 
feast.  I  had  three  fine  rosy-cheeked  schoolboys  for  my  fellow- 
passengers  inside,  full  of  the  buxom  health  and  manly  spirit 
which  I  have  observed  in  the  children  of  this  country.  They 
were  returning  home  for  the  holidays  in  high  glee,  and  promising 
themselves  a  world  of  enjoyment.  It  was  delightful  to  hear  the 

1  Free  translation :  — 

"  There's  a  time  for  hard  playing, 

With  nothing  to  fear. 
Drop  books  without  delaying  — 
The  hour  is  here." 

2  A  northern  county  of  England,  famed  for  the  beauty  of  its  river  scenery, 
in  which  respect  it  is  scarcely  surpassed  by  Scotland. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  31 

gigantic  plans  of  pleasure  of  the  little  rogues,  and  the  impractica- 
ble feats  they  were  to  perform  during  their  six-weeks'  emancipation 
from  the  abhorred  thraldom  of  book,  birch,  and  pedagogue.  They 
were  full  of  the  anticipations  of  the  meeting  with  the  family  and 
household,  down  to  the  very  cat  and  dog,  and  of  the  joy  they 
were  to  give  their  little  sisters  by  the  presents  with  which  their 
pockets  were  crammed ;  but  the  meeting  to  which  they  seemed 
to  look  forward  with  the  greatest  impatience  was  with  Bantam, 
which  I  found  to  be  a  pony,  and,  according  to  their  talk,  pos- 
sessed of  more  virtues  than  any  steed  since  the  days  of  Buceph- 
alus.1 How  he  could  trot!  How  he  could  run !  And  then  such 
leaps  as  he  would  take!  There  was  not  a  hedge  in  the  whole 
country  that  he  could  not  clear. 

They  were  under  the  particular  guardianship  of  the  coachman, 
to  whom,  whenever  an  opportunity  presented,  they  addressed  a 
host  of  questions,  and  pronounced  him  one  of  the  best  fellows  in 
the  whole  world.  Indeed,  I  could  not  but  notice  the  more  than 
ordinary  air  of  bustle  and  importance  of  the  coachman,  who  wore 
his  hat  a  little  on  one  side,  and  had  a  large  bunch  of  Christmas 
greens  stuck  in  the  buttonhole  of  his  coat.  He  is  always  a  per- 
sonage full  of  mighty  care  and  business,  but  he  is  particularly  so 
during  this  season,  having  so  many  commissions  to  execute  in 
consequence  of  the  great  interchange  of  presents.  And  here, 
perhaps,  it  may  not  be  unacceptable  to  my  untraveled  readers  to 
have  a  sketch  that  may  serve  as  a  general  representation  of  this 
very  numerous  and  important  class  of  functionaries,  who  have  a 
dress,  a  manner,  a  language,  an  air,  peculiar  to  themselves,  and 
prevalent  throughout  the  fraternity ;  so  that,  wherever  an  English 
stagecoach-man  may  be  seen,  he  cannot  be  mistaken  for  one  of 
any  other  craft  or  mystery. 

He  has  commonly  a  broad,  full  face,  curiously  mottled  with 
red,  as  if  the  blood  had  been  forced  by  hard  feeding  into  every 
vessel  of  the  skin.  He  is  swelled  into  jolly  dimensions  by  fre- 
quent potations  of  malt  liquors ;  and  his  bulk  is  still  further  in- 

1  The  horse  of  Alexander  the  Great. 


32  IRVING. 

creased  by  a  multiplicity  of  coats,  in  which  he  is  buried  like  a 
cauliflower,  the  upper  one  reaching  to  his  heels.  He  wears  a 
broad-brimmed,  low-crowned  hat ;  a  huge  roll  of  colored  hand- 
kerchief about  his  neck,  knowingly  knotted,  and  tucked  in  at  the 
bosom ;  and  has  in  summer  time  a  large  bouquet  of  flowers  in 
his  buttonhole,  —  the  present,  most  probably,  of  some  enamored 
country  lass.  His  waistcoat  is  commonly  of  some  bright  color, 
striped,  and  his  small-clothes  extend  far  below  the  knees,  to  meet 
a  pair  of  jockey  boots  which  reach  about  halfway  up  his  legs. 

All  this  costume  is  maintained  with  much  precision.  He  has 
a  pride  in  having  his  clothes  of  excellent  materials  ;  and,  notwith- 
standing the  seeming  grossness  of  his  appearance,  there  is  still 
discernible  that  neatness  and  propriety  of  person  which  is  almost 
inherent  in  an  Englishman.  He  enjoys  great  consequence  and 
consideration  along  the  road ;  has  frequent  conferences  with  the 
village  housewives,  who  look  upon  him  as  a  man  of  great  trust 
and  dependence ;  and  he  seems  to  have  a  good  understanding 
with  every  bright-eyed  country  lass.  The  moment  he  arrives 
where  the  horses  are  to  be  changed,  he  throws  down  the  reins 
with  something  of  an  air,  and  abandons  the  cattle  to  the  care  of 
the  hostler,  his  duty  being  merely  to  drive  them  from  one  stage 
to  another.  When  off  the  box,1  his  hands  are  thrust  in  the  pock- 
ets of  his  great-coat,  and  he  rolls  about  the  inn  yard  with  an  air 
of  the  most  absolute  lordliness.  Here  he  is  generally  surrounded 
by  an  admiring  throng  of  hostlers,  stable-boys,  shoeblacks,  and 
those  nameless  hangers-on  that  infest  inns  and  taverns,  and  run 
errands,  and  do  all  kind  of  odd  jobs,  for  the  privilege  of  batten- 
ing on  the  drippings  of  the  kitchen  and  the  leakage  of  the  tap- 
room. These  all  look  up  to  him  as  to  an  oracle ;  treasure  up  his 
cant  phrases ;  echo  his  opinions  about  horses  and  other  topics  of 
jockey  lore ;  and,  above  all,  endeavor  to  imitate  his  air  and  car- 
riage. Every  ragamuffin  that  has  a  coat  to  his  back,  thrusts  his 
hands  in  the  pockets,  rolls  in  his  gait,  talks  slang,  and  is  an  em- 
bryo coachey.2 

1  The  place  beneath  the  driver's  seat  on  a  coach :  hence  the  seat  itself. 

2  Coachman ;  stage-driver. 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK.  33 

Perhaps  it  might  be  owing  to  the  pleasing  serenity  that  reigned 
in  my  own  mind,  that  I  fancied  I  saw  cheerfulness  in  every 
countenance  throughout  the  journey.  A  stagecoach,  however, 
carries  animation  always  with  it,  and  puts  the  world  in  motion  as 
it  whirls  along.  The  horn,  sounded  a^,the  entrance  of  a  village, 
produces  a  general  bustle.  Some  hasten  forth  to  meet  friends ; 
some,  with  bundles  and  bandboxes,  to  secure  places,  and,  in  the 
hurry  of  the  moment,  can  hardly  take  leave  of  the  group  that 
accompanies  them.  In  the  mean  time  the  coachman  has  a  world 
of  small  commissions  to  execute :  sometimes  he  delivers  a  hare 
or  pheasant ;  sometimes  jerks  a  small  parcel  or  newspaper  to  the 
door  of  a  public  house ;  and  sometimes,  with  knowing  leer  and 
words  of  sly  import,  hands  to  some  half-blushing,  half-laughing 
housemaid  an  odd-shaped  billet-doux l  from  some  rustic  admirer. 
As  the  coach  rattles  through  the  village,  every  one  runs  to  the 
window,  and  you  have  glances  on  every  side  of  fresh  country 
faces  and  blooming  giggling  girls.  At  the  corners  are  assembled 
juntos2  of  village  idlers  and  wise  men,  who  take  their  stations 
there  for  the  important  purpose  of  seeing  company  pass ;  but  the 
sagest  knot  is  generally  at  the  blacksmith's,  to  whom  the  passing 
of  the  coach  is  an  event  fruitful  of  much  speculation.  The  smith, 
with  the  horse's  heel  in  his  lap,  pauses  as  the  vehicle  whirls  by ; 
the  cyclops  3  Around  the  anvil  suspend  their  ringing  hammers,  and 
suffer  the  iron  to  grow  cool ;  and  the  sooty  specter,  in  brown 
paper  cap,  laboring  at  the  bellows,  leans  on  the  handle  for  a 
moment,  and  permits  the  asthmatic  engine  to  heave  a  long-drawn 
sigh,  while  he  glares  through  the  murky  smoke  and  sulphureous 
gleams  of  the  smithy. 

1  French,  billet  ("  small  letter  ")  and  doux  ("  sweet ")  :  hence  a  love-letter. 

2  Originally  private   councils ;    here   merely  in  the   sense   of   gossiping 
groups. 

3  The  cyclops,  according  to  Greek  mythology  and  story,  were  a  race  of 
stalwart  giants  with  one  eye  in  their  foreheads :  hence  their  name  (Greek  ku- 
klopes,  kuklos,  "  a  circle;  "  and  ops,  "  eye"),  the  round-eyed.     They  forged 
the  thunderbolts  of  Zeus,  the  trident  of  Poseidon,  and  the  helmet  of  Pluto. 
The  allusion  is  to  their  size  and  strength  as  gigantic  blacksmiths. 


34  IRVING. 

Perhaps  the  impending  holiday  might  have  given  a  more  than 
usual  animation  to  the  country,  for  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  every- 
body was  in  good  looks  and  good  spirits.  Game,  poultry,  and 
other  luxuries  of  the  table,  were  in  brisk  circulation  in  the  vil- 
lages. The  grocers',  butchers',  and  fruiterers'  shops  were 
thronged  with  customers.  The  housewives  were  stirring  briskly 
about,  putting  their  dwellings  in* order;  and  the  glossy  branches 
of  holly,  with  their  bright-red  berries,  began  to  appear  at  the 
windows.  The  scene  brought  to  mind  an  old  writer's  account  of 
Christmas  preparations :  "  Now  capons  'and  hens,  besides  tur- 
keys, geese,  and  ducks,  with  beef  and  mutton  —  must  all  die  — 
for  in  twelve  days  a  multitude  of  people  will  not  be  fed  with  a 
little.  Now  plums  and  spice,  sugar  and  honey,  square  it  among 
pies  and  broth.  Now  or  never  must  music  be  in  tune,  for  the 
youth  must  dance  and  sing  to  get  them  a  heat,  while  the  aged 
sit  by  the  fire.  The  country  maid  leaves  half  her  market,  and 
must  be  sent  again,  if  she  forgets  a  pack  of  cards1  on  Christ- 
mas Eve.  Great  is  the  contention  of  holly  and  ivy,  whether  mas- 
ter or  dame  wears  the  breeches.  Dice  and  cards  benefit  the 
butler ;  and  if  the  cook  do  not  lack  wit,  he  will  sweetly  lick  his 
fingers."  2 

I  was  roused  from  this  fit  of  luxurious  meditation  by  a  shout 
from  my  little  traveling  companions.  They  had  been  looking 
out  of  the  coach  windows  for  the  last  few  miles,  recognizing 
every  tree  and  cottage  as  they  approached  home,  and  now  there 
was  a  general  burst  of  joy.  "There's  John,  and  there's  old 
Carlo,  and  there's  Bantam!"  cried  the  happy  little  rogues,  clap- 
ping their  hands. 

At  the  end  of  a  lane  there  was  an  old,  sober-looking  servant 

1  Cards  furnished  one  of  the  great  resources  at  this  season  of  long  even- 
ings and  indoor  amusements,  as  they  appear  also  to  have  formed  an  express 
feature  of  the  Christmas  entertainments  of  all  ranks  of  people  in  old  times. 
We  are  told  that  the  squire  in  Queen  Anne's  time  "  never  played  cards  but 
at  Christmas,  when  the  family  pack  was  produced  from  the  mantelpiece." 

2  Stevenson,  in  Twelve  Months  (1661). 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  35 

in  livery,  waiting  for  them.  He  was  accompanied  by  a  superan- 
nuated pointer,  and  by  the  redoubtable  Bantam,  —  a  little  old  rat 
of  a  pony,  with  a  shaggy  mane,  and  long,  rusty  tail,  who  stood 
dozing  quietly  by  the  roadside,  little  dreaming  of  the  bustling 
times  that  awaited  him. 

I  was  pleased  to  see  the  fondness  with  which  the  little  fellows 
leaped  about  the  steady  old  footman,  and  hugged  the  pointer, 
who  wriggled  his  whole  body  for  joy.  But  Bantam  was  the 
great  object  of  interest.  All  wanted  to  mount  at  once ;  and  it 
was  with  some  difficulty  that  John  arranged  that  they  should  ride 
by  turns,  and  the  eldest  should  ride  first. 

Off  they  set  at  last,  —  one  on  the  pony,  with  the  dog  bounding 
and  barking  before  him ;  and  the  others  holding  John's  hands, 
both  talking  at  once,  and  overpowering  him  with  questions  about 
home,  and  with  school  anecdotes.  I  looked  after  them  with  a 
feeling  in  which  I  do  not  know  whether  pleasure  or  melancholy 
predominated;  for  I  was  reminded  of  those  days  when,  like 
them,  I  had  neither  known  care  nor  sorrow,  and  a  holiday  was 
the  summit  of  earthly  felicity.  We  stopped  a  few  moments  af- 
terwards to  water  the  horses,  and,  on  resuming  our  route,  a  turn 
of  the  road  brought  us  in  sight  of  a  neat  country  seat.  I  could 
just 'distinguish  the  forms  of  a  lady  and  two  young  girls  in  the 
portico ;  and  I  saw  my  little  comrades,  with  Bantam,'  Carlo,  and 
old  John,  trooping  along  the  carriage  road.  I  leaned  out  of  the 
coach  window,  in  hopes  of  witnessing  the  happy  meeting,  but  a 
grove  of  trees  shut  it  from  my  sight. 

In  the  evening  we  reached  a  village  where  I  had  determined 
to  pass  the  night.  As  we  drove  into  the  great  gateway  of  the 
inn,  I  saw  on  one  side  the  light  of  a  rousing  kitchen  fire  beaming 
through  a  window.  I  entered,  and  admired,  for  the  hundredth 
time,  that  picture  of  convenience,  neatness,  and  broad,  honest 
enjoyment,  the  kitchen  of  an  English  inn.  It  was  of  spacious 
dimensions,  hung  round  with  copper  and  tin  vessels  highly  pol- 
ished, and  decorated  here  and  there  with  a  Christmas  green. 
Hams,  tongues,  and  flitches  of  bacon  were  suspended  from  the 


36  IRVING. 

ceiling;  a  smoke- jack1  made  its  ceaseless  clanking  beside  the 
fireplace ;  and  a  clock  ticked  in  one  corner.  A  well-scoured 
deal  table  extended  along  one  side  of  the  kitchen,  with  a  cold 
round  of  beef  and  other  hearty  viands  upon  it,  over  which  two 
foaming  tankards  of  ale  seemed  mounting  guard.  Travelers  of 
inferior  order  were  preparing  to  attack  this  stout  repast,  while 
others  sat  smoking  and  gossiping  over  their  ale  on  two  high- 
backed  oaken  settles 2  beside  the  fire.  Trim  housemaids  were 
hurrying  backwards  and  forwards  under  the  directions  of  a  fresh 
bustling  landlady,  but  still  seizing  an  occasional  moment  to  ex- 
change a  flippant  word,  and  have  a  rallying  laugh,  with  the  group 
round  the  fire.  The  scene  completely  realized  Poor  Robin's3 
humble  idea  of  the  comforts  of  mid- winter: — 

"  Now  trees  their  leafy  hats  do  bare 
To  reverence  Winter's  silver  hair, 
A  handsome  hostess,  merry  host, 
A  pot  of  ale,  and  now  a  toast, 
Tobacco  and  a  good  coal  fire, 
Are  things  this  season  doth  require." 

I  had  not  been  long  at  the  inn  when  a  post-chaise  drove  up  to 
the  door.  A  young  gentleman  stepped  out,  and  by  the  light  of 
the  lamps  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  countenance  which  I  thought 
I  knew.  I  moved  forward  to  get  a  nearer  view,  when  his  eye 
caught  mine.  I  was  not  mistaken :  it  was  Frank  Bracebridge, 
a  sprightly,  good-humored  young  fellow,  with  whom  I  had  once 
traveled  on  the  Continent.  Our  meeting  was  extremely  cordial, 
for  the  countenance  of  an  old  fellow-traveler  always  brings  up 
the  recollection  of  a  thousand  pleasant  scenes,  odd  adventures, 
and  excellent  jokes.  To  discuss  all  these  in  a  transient  interview 

1  A  machine,  consisting  of  fly-wheels  used  to  rotate  a  roasting-spit,  and 
operated  by  the  current  of  rising  air  in  a  chimney. 

2  Benches. 

3  "  Poor  Robin  "  was  the  pseudonym  of  Robert  Herrick,  the  poet,  under 
which  he  issued  a  series  of  almanacs  (begun  in  1661).    The  quotation  is  from 
the  almanac  for  1684. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  37 

at  an  inn  was  impossible ;  and  finding  thaj:  I  was  not  pressed  for 
time,  and  was  merely  making  a  tour  of  observation,  he  insisted 
that  I  should  give  him  a  day  or  two  at  his  father's  country  seat, 
to  which  he  was  going  to  pass  the  holidays,  and  which  lay  at  a 
few  miles'  distance.  "  It  is  better  than  eating  a  solitary  Christ- 
mas dinner  at  an  inn,"  said  he,  "  and  I  can  assure  you  of  a  hearty 
welcome  in  something  of  the  old-fashioned  style."  His  reason- 
ing was  cogent,  and  I  must  confess  the  preparation  I  had  seen 
for  universal  festivity  and  social  enjoyment  had  made  me  feel  a 
little  impatient  of  my  loneliness.  I  closed,  therefore,  at  once, 
with  his  invitation :  the  chaise  drove  up  to  the  door,  and  in  a  few 
moments  I  was  on  my  way  to  the  family  mansion  of  the  Brace- 
bridges. 


CHRISTMAS   EVE. 

"  Saint  Francis  and  Saint  Benedight 
Blase  this  house  from  wicked  wight ; 
From  the  night-mare  and  the  goblin, 
That  is  hight  good  fellow  Robin  ; 
Keep  it  from  all  evil  spirits, 
Fairies,  weazles,  rats,  and  ferrets : 
From  curfew-time 
To  the  next  prime." 

CARTWRIGHT.  » 

IT  was  a  brilliant  moonlight  night,  but  extremely  cold.  Our 
chaise  whirled  rapidly  over  the  frozen  ground.  The  post-boy 
smacked  his  whip  incessantly,  and  a  part  of  the  time  his  horses 
were  on  a  gallop.  "  He  knows  where  he  is  going,"  said  my  com- 
panion, laughing,  "  and  is  eager  to  arrive  in  time  for  some  of  the 
merriment  and  good  cheer  of  the  servants'  hall.2  My  father,  you 

1  William   Cartwright  (1611-43),  an   English  poet  and  clergyman,  was 
very  popular  in  his  time,  especially  about  Oxford,  where  he  was  educated, 
and  where  he  afterwards  preached. 

2  The  servants  had  enlarged  privileges  during  this  season,  not  only  by 
custom,  but  by  positive  enactment ;  and  certain  games,  which  at  other  peri- 
ods they  were  prohibited  from  engaging  in,  were  allowed  at  Christmas  time. 


3  8  IRVING. 

must  know,  is  a  bigoted  devotee  of  the  old  school,  and  prides 
himself  upon  keeping  up  something  of  old  English  hospitality. 
He  is  a  tolerable  specimen  of  what  you  will  rarely  meet  with 
nowadays  in  its  purity,  —  the  old  English  country  gentleman  ;  for 
our  men  of  fortune  spend  so  much  of  their  time  in  town,  and 
fashion  is  carried  so  much  into  the  country,  that  the  strong,  rich 
peculiarities  of  ancient  rural  life  are  almost  polished  away.  My 
father,  however,  from  early  years,  took  honest  Peacham l  for  his 
text-book,  instead  of  Chesterfield.2  He  determined  in  his  own 
mind  that  there  was  no  condition  more  truly  honorable  and  en- 
viable than  that  of  a  country  gentleman  on  his  paternal  lands, 
and  therefore  passes  the  whole  of  his  time  on  his  estate.  He  is 
a  strenuous  advocate  for  the  revival  of  the  old  rural  games  and 
holiday  observances,  and  is  deeply  read  in  the  writers,  ancient 
and  modern,  who  have  treated  on  the  subject.  Indeed,  his  fa- 
vorite range  of  reading  is  among  the  authors  who  flourished  at 
least  two  centuries  since,  who,  he  insists,  wrote  and  thought  more 
like  true  Englishmen  than  any  of  their  successors.  He  even  re- 
grets sometimes  that  he  had  not  been  born  a  few  centuries  ear- 
lier, when  England  was  itself,  and  had  its  peculiar  manners  and 
customs.  As  he  lives  at  some  distance  from  the  main  road,  in 
rather  a  lonely  part  of  the  country,  without  any  rival  gentry  near 
him,  he  has  that  most  enviable  of  all  blessings  to  an  Englishman, 
an  opportunity  of  indulging  the  bent  of  his  own  humor  without 
molestation.  Being  representative  of  the  oldest  family  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  a  great  part  of  the  peasantry  being  his  ten- 
ants, he  is  much  looked  up  to,  and,  in  general,  is  known  simply 
by  the  appellation  of  '  The  Squire,'  —  a  title  which  has  been  ac- 
corded to  the  head  of  the  family  since  time  immemorial.  I  think 
it  best  to  give  you  these  hints  about  my  worthy  old  father,  to 

1  Henry  Peacham  (born  in  Hertfordshire,  England,  in  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury) was  the  author  of  The  Complete  Gentleman  (1622). 

2  Chesterfield  (Philip  Dormer  Stanhope)  was  an  English  courtier,  orator, 
and  wit,  renowned  as  a  model  of  politeness,  and  criterion  of  taste.     He  was 
born  in  London  in  1694. 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK.  39 

prepare  you  for  any  little  eccentricities  that  might  otherwise 
appear  absurd." 

We  had  passed  for  some  time  along  the  wall  of  a  park,  and  at 
length  the  chaise  stopped  at  the  gate.  It  was  in  a  heavy,  mag- 
nificent old  style,  of  iron  bars,  fancifully  wrought  at  top  into 
flourishes  and  flowers.  The  huge,  square  columns  that  supported 
the  gate  were  surmounted  by  the  family  crest.  Close  adjoining 
was  the  porter's  lodge,  sheltered  under  dark  fir-trees,  and  almost 
buried  in  shrubbery. 

The  post-boy  rang  a  large  porter's  bell,  which  resounded 
through  the  still,  frosty  air,  and  was  answered  by  the  distant 
barking  of  dogs,  with  which  the  mansion-house  seemed  garri- 
soned. An  old  woman  immediately  appeared  at  the  gate.  As 
the  moonlight  fell  strongly  upon  her,  I  had  a  full  view  of  a 
little  primitive  dame,  dressed  very  much  in  antique  taste,  with  a 
neat  kerchief  and  stomacher,1  and  her  silver  hair  peeping  from 
under  a  cap  of  snowy  whiteness.  She  came  courtesying  forth, 
with  many  expressions  of  simple  joy  at  seeing  her  young  master. 
Her  husband,  it  seemed,  was  up  at  the  house  keeping  Christmas 
Eve  in  the  servants'  hall.  They  could  not  do  without  him,  as  he 
was  the  best  hand  at  a  song  and  story  in  the  household. 

My  friend  proposed  that  we  should  alight,  and  walk  through 
the  park  to  the  hall,  which  was  at  no  great  distance,  while  the 
chaise  should  follow  on.  Our  road  wound  through  a  noble  ave- 
nue of  trees,  among  the  naked  branches  of  which  the  moon  glit- 
tered, as  she  rolled  through  the  deep  vault  of  a  cloudless  sky. 
The  lawn  beyond  was  sheeted  with  a  slight  covering  of  snow, 
which  here  and  there  sparkled  as  the  moonbeams  caught  a  frosty 
crystal ;  and  at  a  distance  might  be  seen  a  thin,  transparent 
vapor,  stealing  up  from  the  low  grounds,  and  threatening  grad- 
ually to  shroud  the  landscape. 

My  companion  looked  round  him  with  transport.  "  How 
often,"  said  he,  "have  I  scampered  up  this  avenue,  on  returning 

1  The  portion  of  a  dress  forming,  generally,  the  lower  part  of  the  bodice, 
extending  down  in  front  into  the  skirt,  and  usually  overlapping  it. 


40  IRVING. 

home  on  school  vacations!  How  often  have  I  played  under  these 
trees  when  a  boy!  I  feel  a  degree  of  filial  reverence  for  them, 
as  we  look  up  to  those  who  have  cherished  us  in  childhood.  My 
father  was  always  scrupulous  in  exacting  our  holidays,  and  hav- 
ing us  around  him  on  family  festivals.  He  used  to  direct  and 
superintend  our  games  with  the  strictness  that  some  parents  do 
the  studies  of  their  children.  He  was  very  particular  that  we 
should  play  the  old  English  games  according  to  their  original 
form,  and  consulted  old  books  for  precedent  and  authority  for 
every  '  merrie  disport ; '  yet  I  assure  you  there  never  was  pedantry 
so  delightful.  It  was  the  policy  of  the  good  old  gentleman  to 
make  his  children  feel  that  home  was  the  happiest  place  in  the 
world ;  and  I  value  this  delicious  home  feeling  as  one  of  the 
choicest  gifts  a  parent  could  bestow." 

We  were  interrupted  by  the  clamor  of  a  troop  of  dogs  of  all 
sorts  and  sizes,  —  "mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound,  and  curs 
of  low  degree,"  —  that,  disturbed  by  the  ringing  of  the  porter's 
bell  and  the  rattling  of  the  chaise,  came  bounding,  open-mouthed, 
across  the  lawn. 

"  The  little  dogs  and  all, 
Tray,  Blanch,  and  Sweet-heart,  see,  they  bark  at  me."1 

cried  Bracebridge,  laughing.  At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the  bark 
was  changed  into  a  yelp  of  delight,  and  in  a  moment  he  was  sur- 
rounded and  almost  overpowered  by  the  caresses  of  the  faithful 
animals. 

We  had  now  come  in  full  view  of  the  old  family  mansion, 
partly  thrown  in  deep  shadow,  and  partly  lit  up  by  the  cold 
moonshine.  It  was  an  irregular  building  of  some  magnitude, 
and  seemed  to  be  of  the  architecture  of  different  periods.  One 
wing  was  evidently  very  ancient,  with  heavy  stone-shafted  bow- 
windows  jutting  out  and  overrun  with  ivy,  from  among  the  foli- 
age of  which  the  small,  diamond-shaped  panes  of  glass  glittered 
with  the  moonbeams.  The  rest  of  the  house  was  in  the  French 

1  King  Lear,  act  iii.  sc.  6. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  41 

taste  of  Charles  II. 's1  time,  having  been  repaired  and  altered,  as 
my  friend  told  me,  by  one  of  his  ancestors,  who  returned  with 
that  monarch  at  the  Restoration.2  The  grounds  about  the  house 
were  laid  out  in  the  old  formal  manner  of  artificial  flower-beds, 
clipped  shrubberies,  raised  terraces,  and  heavy  stone  balustrades, 
ornamented  with  urns,  a  leaden  statue  or  two,  and  a  jet  of  water. 
The  old  gentleman,  I  was  told,  was  extremely  careful  to  preserve 
this  obsolete  finery  in  all  its  original  state.  He  admired  this 
fashion  in  gardening :  it  had  an  air  of  magnificence,  was  courtly 
and  noble,  and  befitting  good  old  family  style.  The  boasted  imi- 
tation of  nature  in  modern  gardening  had  sprung  up  with  modern 
republican  notions,  but  did  not  suit  a  monarchical  government : 
it  smacked  of  the  leveling  system.  I  could  not  help  smiling  at 
this  introduction  of  politics  into  gardening,  though  I  expressed 
some  apprehension  that  I  should  find  the  old  gentleman  rather 
intolerant  in  his  creed.  Frank  assured  me,  however,  that  it  was 
almost  the  only  instance  in  which  he  had  ever  heard  his  father 
meddle  with  politics;  and  he  believed  he  had  got  this  notion 
from  a  member  of  Parliament  who  once  passed  a  few  weeks  with 
him.  The  Squire  was  glad  of  any  argument  to  defend  his  clipped 
yew-trees  and  formal  terraces,  which  had  been  occasionally  at- 
tacked by  modern  landscape-gardeners. 

As  we  approached  the  house,  we  heard  the  sound  of  music, 
and  now  and  then  a  burst  of  laughter,  from  one  end  of  the  build- 
ing. This,  Bracebridge  said,  must  proceed  from  the  servants' 
hall,  where  a  great  deal  of  revelry  was  permitted,  and  even  en- 
couraged by  the  Squire,  throughout  the  twelve  days  3  of  Christ- 
mas, provided  every  thing  was  done  conformably  to  ancient 

1  Charles  II.  (born,  1630)  was  proclaimed  king  by  the  Scottish  Parlia- 
ment in  1649.     He  landed  in  Scotland  in  1650,  and  was  crowned  the  follow- 
ing year.     He  marched  into  England  against  Cromwell,  but  was  defeated  at 
Worcester  in  1651. 

2  In  English  history,  the  reestablishing  of  the  monarchy  with  Charles  II. 
in  1660,  and  the  period  of  his  reign. 

3  Referring  to  the  period  between  Christmas  and  Epiphany,  or  from  Dec. 
2$  to  Jan.  6. 


42  IRVING. 

usage.  Here  were  kept  up  the  old  games  of  hoodman  blind, 
shoe  the  wild  mare,  hot  cockles,  steal  the  white  loaf,  bob-apple, 
and  snap-dragon.  The  Yule  clog1  and  Christmas  candle  were 
regularly  burnt ;  and  the  mistletoe,  with  its  white  berries,  hung 
up,  to  the  imminent  peril  of  all  the  pretty  house-maids.2 

So  intent  were  the  servants  upon  their  sports,  that  we  had  to 
ring  repeatedly  before  we  could  make  ourselves  heard.  On  our 
arrival  being  announced,  the  Squire  came  out  to  receive  us,  ac- 
companied by  his  two  other  sons,  —  one  a  young  officer  in  the 
army,  home  on  leave  of  absence ;  the  other  an  Oxonian,  just 
from  the  university.  The  Squire  was  a  fine,  healthy-looking  old 
gentleman,  with  silver  hair  curling  lightly  round  an  open,  florid 
countenance,  in  which  a  physiognomist,  with  the  advantage,  like 
myself,  of  a  previous  hint  or  two,  might  discover  a  singular  mix- 
ture of  whim  and  benevolence. 

1  IRVING'S  NOTE. —  The  Yule  clog  is  a  great  log  of  wood,  sometimes  the 
root  of  a  tree,  brought  into  the  house  with  great  ceremony  on  Christmas  Eve, 
laid  in  the  fireplace,  and  lighted  with  the  brand  of  last  year's  clog.     While 
it  lasted,  there  was  great  drinking,  singing,  and  telling  of  tales.     Sometimes 
it  was  accompanied  by  Christmas  candles,  but  in  the  cottages  the  only  light 
was  from  the  ruddy  blaze  of  the  great  wood  fire.    The  Yule  clog  was  to  burn 
all  night :  if  it  went  out,  it  was  considered  a  sign  of  ill  luck.     Herrick  men- 
tions it  in  one  of  his  songs  :  — 

"  Come,  bring  with  a  noise, 

My  merrie,  merrie  boyes, 
The  Christmas  log  to  the  firing ; 

While  my  good  dame,  she 

Bids  ye  all  be  free, 
And  drink  to  your  hearts  desiring." 

The  Yule  clog  is  still  burnt  in  many  farmhouses  and  kitchens  in  England, 
particularly  in  the  north,  and  there  are  several  superstitions  connected  with 
it  among  the  peasantry.  If  a  squinting  person  come  to  the  house  while  it  is 
burning,  or  a  person  barefooted,  it  is  considered  an  ill  omen.  The  brand 
remaining  from  the  Yule  clog  is  carefully  put  away  to  light  the  next  year's 
Christmas  fire. 

2  IRVING'S  NOTE. —  The  mistletoe  is  still  hung  up  in  farmhouses  and 
kitchens  at  Christmas,  and  the  young  men  have  the  privilege  of  kissing  the 
girls  under  it,  plucking  each  time  a  berry  from  the  bush.     When  the  berries 
are  all  plucked.,  the  privilege  ceases. 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK.  43 

The  family  meeting  was  warm  and  affectionate.  As  the  even- 
ing was  far  advanced,  the  Squire  would  not  permit  us  to  change 
our  traveling  dresses,  but  ushered  us  at  once  to  the  company, 
which  was  assembled  in  a  large,  old-fashioned  hall.  It  was  com- 
posed of  different  branches  of  a  numerous  family  connection, 
where  there  were  the  usual  proportions  of  old  uncles  and  aunts, 
comfortable  married  dames,  superannuated  spinsters,  blooming 
country  cousins,  half-fledged  striplings,  and  bright-eyed  boarding- 
school  hoidens.  They  were  variously  occupied, —  some  at  a 
round  game  of  cards ;  others  conversing  around  the  fireplace  ;  at 
one  end  of  the  hall  was  a  group  of  the  young  folks,  some  nearly 
grown  up,  others  of  a  more  tender  and  budding  age,  fully  en- 
grossed by  a  merry  game ;  and  a  profusion  of  wooden  horses, 
penny  trumpets,  and  tattered  dolls  about  the  floor,  showed  traces 
of  a  troop  of  little  fairy  beings,  who,  having  frolicked  through  a 
happy  day,  had  been  carried  off  to  slumber  through  a  peaceful 
night. 

While  the  mutual  greetings  were  going  on  between  young 
Bracebridge  and  his  relatives,  I  had  time  to  scan  the  apartment. 
I  have  called  it  a  hall,  for  so  it  had  certainly  been  in  old  times, 
and  the  Squire  had  evidently  endeavored  to  restore  it  to  some- 
thing of  its  primitive  state.  Over  the  heavy  projecting  fireplace 
was  suspended  a  picture  of  a  warrior  in  armor,  standing  by  a 
white  horse ;  and  on  the  opposite  wall  hung  a  helmet,  buckler, 
and  lance.  At  one  end  an  enormous  pair  of  antlers  were  inserted 
in  the  wall,  the  branches  serving  as  hooks  on  which  to  suspend 
hats,  whips,  and  spurs  ;  and  in  the  corners  of  the  apartment  were 
fowling-pieces,  fishing-rods,  and  other  sporting  implements.  The 
furniture  was  of  the  cumbrous  workmanship  of  former  days, 
though  some  articles  of  modern  convenience  had  been  added,  and 
the  oaken  floor  had  been  carpeted ;  so  that  the  whole  presented 
an  odd  mixture  of  parlor  and  hall. 

The  grate  had  been  removed  from  the  wide,  overwhelming 
fireplace,  to  make  way  for  a  fire  of  wood,  in  the  midst  of  which 
was  an  enormous  log,  glowing  and  blazing,  and  sending  forth  a 


44  IRVING. 

vast  volume  of  light  and  heat :  this  I  understood  was  the  Yule 
clog,  which  the  Squire  was  particular  in  having  brought  in  and 
illumined  on  a  Christmas  Eve,  according  to  ancient  custom. 

It  was  really  delightful  to  see  the  old  Squire  seated  in  his  he- 
reditary elbow  chair,  by  the  hospitable  fireside  of  his  ancestors, 
and  looking  around  him  like  the  sun  of  a  system,  beaming  warmth 
and  gladness  to  every  heart.  Even  the  very  dog  that  lay  stretched 
at  his  feet,  as  he  lazily  shifted  his  position  and  yawned,  would 
look  fondly  up  in  his  master's  face,  wag  his  tail  against  the  floor, 
and  stretch  himself  again  to  sleep,  confident  of  kindness  and  pro- 
tection. There  is  an  emanation  from  the  heart  in  genuine  hos- 
pitality which  cannot  be  described,  but  is  immediately  felt,  and 
puts  the  stranger  at  once  at  his  ease.  I  had  not  been  seated 
many  minutes  by  the  comfortable  hearth  of  the  worthy  old  cava- 
lier, before  I  found  myself  as  much  at  home  as  if  I  had  been  one 
of  the  family. 

Supper  was  announced  shortly  after  our  arrival.  It  was  served 
up  in  a  spacious  oaken  chamber,  the  panels  of  which  shone  with 
wax,  and  around  which  were  several  family  portraits  decorated 
with  holly  and  ivy.1  Beside  the  accustomed  lights,  two  great 
wax  tapers,  called  Christmas  candles,2  wreathed  with  greens,  were 
placed  on  a  highly  polished  beaufet  among  the  family  plate.  The 
table  was  abundantly  spread  with  substantial  fare  ;  but  the  Squire 
made  his  supper  of  frumenty,  —  a  dish  made  of  wheat  cakes 
boiled  in  milk,  with  rich  spices,  being  a  standing  dish  in  old  times 
for  Christmas  Eve. 

I  was  happy  to  find  my  old  friend,  minced  pie,3  in  the  retinue 

1  Ivy  was  used  not  only  as  a  vintner's  sign,  but  also  among  the  evergreens 
at  funerals. 

2  Christmas  was  called  the  "  Feast  of  Lights  "  in  the  Western  or  Latin 
Church,  because  they  used  many  lights  or  candles  at  the  feast ;  or,  rather, 
because  Christ,  the  Light  of  all  lights,  that  true  Light,  came  into  the  world : 
hence  the  Christmas  candle. 

3  By  some  it  has  been  supposed,  from  the  Oriental  ingredients  which  en- 
ter into  its  composition,  to  have  a  reference  to  the  offerings  made  by  the  Wise 
Men  of  the  East ;  and  it  was  anciently  the  custom  to  make  these  pies  of  an 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  45 

of  the  feast ;  and  finding  him  to  be  perfectly  orthodox,  and  that 
I  need  not  be  ashamed  of  my  predilection,  I  greeted  him  with  all 
the  warmth  wherewith  we  usually  greet  an  old  and  very  genteel 
acquaintance. 

The  mirth  of  the  company  was  greatly  promoted  by  the  humors 
of  an  eccentric  personage  whom  Mr.  Bracebridge  always  ad- 
dressed with  the  quaint  appellation  of  Master  Simon.  He  was  a 
tight,  brisk  little  man,  with  the  air  of  an  arrant  old  bachelor. 
His  nose  was  shaped  like  the  bill  of  a  parrot ;  his  face,  slightly 
pitted  with  the  small-pox,  with  a  dry,  perpetual  bloom  on  it,  like 
a  frost-bitten  leaf  in  autumn.  He  had  an  eye  of  great  quickness 
and  vivacity,  with  a  drollery  and  lurking  waggery  of  expression 
that  was  irresistible.  He  was  evidently  the  wit  of  the  family, 
dealing  very  much  in  sly  jokes  and  innuendoes  with  the  ladies, 
and  making  infinite  merriment  by  harpings  upon  old  themes; 
which,  unfortunately,  my  ignorance  of  the  family  chronicles  did 
not  permit  me  to  enjoy.  It  seemed  to  be  his  great  delight  during 
supper  to  keep  a  young  girl  next  him  in  a  continual  agony  of  stifled 
laughter,  in  spite  of  her  awe  of  the  reproving  looks  of  her  mother, 
who  sat  opposite.  Indeed,  he  was  the  idol  of  the  younger  part 
of  the  company,  who  laughed  at  everything  he  said  or  did,  and 
at  every  turn  of  his  countenance.  I  could  not  wonder  at  it,  for 
he  must  have  been  a  miracle  of  accomplishments  in  their  eyes. 
He  could  imitate  Punch  and  Judy ;  make  an  old  woman  of  his 
hand,  with  the  assistance  of  a  burnt  cork  and  pocket-handker- 
chief ;  and  cut  an  orange  into  such  a  ludicrous  caricature  that  the 
young  folks  were  ready  to  die  with  laughing. 

I  was  let  briefly  into  his  history  by  Frank  Bracebridge.  He 
was  an  old  bachelor,  of  a  small,  independent  income,  which,  by 
careful  management,  was  sufficient  for  all  his  wants.  He  re- 
volved through  the  family  system  like  a  vagrant  comet  in  its 
orbit ;  sometimes  visiting  one  branch,  and  sometimes  another 
quite  remote,  as  is  often  the  case  with  gentlemen  of  extensive 

oblong  form,  thereby  representing  the  manger  in  which,  on  that  occasion, 
these  sages  found  the  infant  Jesus. 


46  IRVING. 

connections  and  small  fortunes  in  England.  He  had  a  chirping, 
buoyant  disposition,  always  enjoying  the  present  moment;  and 
his  frequent  change  of  scene  and  company  prevented  his  acquir- 
ing those  rusty,  unaccommodating  habits,  with  which  old  bache- 
lors are  so  uncharitably  charged.  He  was  a  complete  family 
chronicle,  being  versed  in  the  genealogy,  history,  and  intermar- 
riages of  the  whole  house  of  Bracebridge,  which  made  him  a 
great  favorite  with  the  old  folks ;  f  he  was  a  beau  of  all  the  elder 
ladies  and  superannuated  spinsters,  among  whom  he  was  habitu- 
ally considered  rather  a  young  fellow,  and  he  was  master  of  the 
revels  among  the  children  ;  so  that  there  was  not  a  more  popular 
being  in  the  sphere  in  which  he  moved  than  Mr.  Simon  Brace- 
bridge.  Of  late  years  he  had  resided  almost  entirely  with  the 
Squire,  to  whom  he  had  become  a  factotum,  and  whom  he  par- 
ticularly delighted  by  jumping  with  his  humor  in  respect  to  old 
times,  and  by  having  a  scrap  of  an  old  song  to  suit  every  occa- 
sion. We  had  presently  a  specimen  of  his  last-mentioned  talent, 
for  no  sooner  was  supper  removed,  and  spiced  wines  and  other 
beverages  peculiar  to  the  season  introduced,  than  Master  Simon 
was  called  on  for  a  good  old  Christmas  song.  He  bethought 
himself  for  a  moment,  and  then,  with  a  sparkle  of  the  eye,  and  a 
voice  that  was  by  no  means  bad,  excepting  that  it  ran  occasionally 
into  a  falsetto,  like  the  notes  of  a  split  reed,  he  quavered  forth  a 
quaint  old  ditty :  — 

"Now  Christmas  is  come, 

Let  us  beat  up  the  drum, 
And  call  all  our  neighbors  together ; 

And  when  they  appear, 

Let  us  make  such  a  cheer 
As  will  keep  out  the  wind  and  the  weather,"  etc. 

The  supper  had  disposed  every  one  to  gayety,  and  an  old  har- 
per was  summoned  from  the  servants'  hall,  where  he  had  been 
strumming  all  the  evening,  and  to  all  appearance  comforting  him- 
self with  some  of  the  Squire's  home-brewed.  He  was  a  kind  of 
hanger-on,  I  was  told,  of  the  establishment,  and,  though  ostensi- 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK.  47 

bly  a  resident  of  the  village,  was  oftener  to  be  found  in  the 
Squire's  kitchen  than  his  own  home,  the  old  gentleman  being  fond 
of  the  sound  of  "  harp  in  hall." 

The  dance,  like  most  dances  after  supper,  was  a  merry  one. 
Some  of  the  older  folks  joined  in  it,  and  the  Squire  himself  figured 
down  several  couple  with  a  partner  with  whom  he  affirmed  he 
had  danced  at  every  Christmas  for  nearly  half  a  century.  Mas- 
ter Simon,  who  seemed  to  be  a  kind  of  connecting  link  between 
the  old  times  and  the  new,  and  to  be  withal  a  little  antiquated  in 
the  taste  of  his  accomplishments,  evidently  piqued  himself  on  his 
dancing,  and  was  endeavoring  to  gain  credit  by  the  heel  and  toe, 
rigadoon,  and  other  graces  of  the  ancient  school ;  but  he  had 
unluckily  assorted  himself  with  a  little  romping  girl  from  board- 
ing-school, who,  by  her  wild  vivacity,  kept  him  continually  on 
the  stretch,  and  defeated  all  his  sober  attempts  at  elegance  — 
such  are  the  ill-assorted  matches  to  which  antique  gentlemen  are 
unfortunately  prone ! 

The  young  Oxonian,  on  the  contrary,  had  led  out  one  of  his 
maiden  aunts,  on  whom  the  rogue  played  a  thousand  little  knave- 
ries with  impunity.  He  was  full  of  practical  jokes,  and  his  de- 
light was  to  tease  his  aunts  and  cousins ;  yet,  like  all  madcap 
youngsters,  he  was  a  universal  favorite  among  the  women.  The 
most  interesting  couple  in  the  dance  was  the  young  officer  and 
a  ward  of  the  Squire's,  a  beautiful,  blushing  girl  of  seventeen. 
From  several  shy  glances  which  I  had  noticed  in  the  course  of 
the  evening,  I  suspected  there  was  a  little  kindness  growing  up 
between  them ;  and,  indeed,  the  young  soldier  was  just  the 
hero  to  captivate  a  romantic  girl.  He  was  tall,  slender,  and 
handsome,  and,  like  most  young  British  officers  of  late  years, 
had  picked  up  various  small  accomplishments  on  the  Conti- 
nent,—  he  could  talk  French  and  Italian,  draw  landscapes,  sing 
very  tolerably,  dance  divinely,  —  but,  above  all,  he  had  been 
wounded  at  Waterloo.1  What  girl  of  seventeen,  well  read  in 

1  The  French  under  Napoleon  were  defeated  by  the  English,  June  1 8, 
1815,  at  Waterloo,  a  village  in  Belgium. 


48  IRVING. 

poetry  and  romance,  could  resist  such  a  mirror  of  chivalry  and 
perfection ! 

The  moment  the  dance  was  over,  he  caught  up  a  guitar,  and, 
lolling  against  the  old  marble  fireplace,  in  an  attitude  which  I  am 
half  inclined  to  suspect  was  studied,  began  the  little  French  air 
of  the  "  Troubadour."  The  Squire,  however,  exclaimed  against 
having  anything  on  Christmas  Eve  but  good  old  English ;  upon 
which  the  young  minstrel,  casting  up  his  eye  for  a  moment,  as 
if  in  an  effort  of  memory,  struck  into  another  strain,  and,  with 
a  charming  air  of  gallantry,  gave  Herrick's1  "  Night- Piece  to 

Julia:"— 

"  Her  eyes  the  glow-worm  lend  thee. 
The  shooting  stars  attend  thee, 
And  the  elves  also, 
Whose  little  eyes  glow 
Like  the  sparks  of  fire,  befriend  thee. 

"  No  Will-o'-the-Wisp  mislight  thee; 
Nor  snake  or  slow-worm  bite  thee ; 

But  on,  on  thy  way, 

Not  making  a  stay, 
Since  ghost  there  is  none  to  affright  thee. 

"  Then  let  not  the  dark  thee  cumber ; 
What  though  the  moon  does  slumber, 
The  stars  of  the  night 
Will  lend  thee  their  light, 
Like  tapers  clear  without  number. 

"Then,  Julia,  let  me  woo  thee, 
Thus,  thus  to  come  unto  me ; 
And  when  I  shall  meet 
Thy  silvery  feet, 
My  soul  I'll  pour  into  thee." 

The  song  might  or  might  not  have  been  intended  in  compli- 
ment to  the  fair  Julia,  for  so  I  found  his  partner  was  called. 
She,  however,  was  certainly  unconscious  of  any  such  application, 

1  An  English  poet  and  clergyman  (1591-1674).  As  a  writer  of  pastoral 
lyrics,  Herrick  takes  a  high  rank  in  English  literature. 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK.  49 

for  she  never  looked  at  the  singer,  but  kept  her  eyes  cast  upon 
the  floor.  Her  face  was  suffused,  it  is  true,  with  a  beautiful 
blush,  and  there  was  a  gentle  heaving  of  the  bosom ;  but  all  that 
was  doubtless  caused  by  the  exercise  of  the  dance.  Indeed,  so 
great  was  her  indifference,  that  she  was  amusing  herself  with  pluck- 
ing to  pieces  a  choice  bouquet  of  hothouse  flowers,  and  by  the  time 
the  song  was  concluded  the  nosegay  lay  in  ruins  on  the  floor. 

The  party  now  broke  up  for  the  night  with  the  kind-hearted 
old  custom  of  shaking  hands.  As  I  passed  through  the  hall,  on 
my  way  to  my  chamber,  the  dying  embers  of  the  Yule  clog  still 
sent  forth  a  dusky  glow ;  and,  had  it  not  been  the  season  when 
"no  spirit  dare  stir  abroad,"  l  I  should  have  been  half  tempted 
to  steal  from  my  room  at  midnight,  and  peep  whether  the  fairies 
might  not  be  at  their  revels  about  the  hearth. 

My  chamber  was  in  the  old  part  of  the  mansion,  the  ponder- 
ous furniture  of  which  might  have  been  fabricated  in  the  days 
of  the  giants.  The  room  was  paneled  with  cornices  of  heavy 
carved  work,  in  which  flowers  and  grotesque  faces  were  strangely 
intermingled ;  and  a  row  of  black-looking  portraits  stared  mourn- 
fully at  me  from  the  walls.  The  bed  was  of  rich  though  faded 
damask,  with  a  lofty  tester,2  and  stood  in  a  niche  opposite  a  bow- 
window.  I  had  scarcely  got  into  bed,  when  a  strain  of  music 
seemed  to  break  forth  in  the  air  just  below  the  window.  I 
listened,  and  found  it  proceeded  from  a  band,  which  I  concluded 
to  be  the  waits  3  from  some  neighboring  village.  They  went  round 
the  house,  playing  under  the  windows.  I  drew  aside  the  curtains 
to  hear  them  more  distinctly.  The  moonbeams  fell  through  the 
upper  part  of  the  casement,  partially  lighting  up  the  antiquated 
apartment.  The  sounds,  as  they  receded,  became  more  soft  and 

1  It  is  an  old  superstition,  that  on  the  eve  of  Christmas  "the  bird  of 
dawning  singeth  all  night  long  "  to  scare  away  all  evil  things  from  infesting 
the  hallowed  hours. 

2  Old  French,  testiere  ("  a  headpiece")  ;  Latin,  testa  ("  a  shell").     The 
material  stretched  over  a  four-posted  bed,  forming  a  canopy  over  it. 

*  See  Note  2,  p.  28. 


50  IRVING. 

aerial,  and  seemed  to  accord  with  quiet  and  moonlight.  I  lis- 
tened and  listened.  They  became  more  and  more  tender  and 
remote ;  and,  as  they  gradually  died  away,  my  head  sunk  upon 
the  pillow,  and  I  fell  asleep. 


CHRISTMAS    DAY. 

"  Dark  and  dull  night  flie  hence  away, 
And  give  the  honor  to  this  day 
That  sees  December  turn'd  to  May. 

Why  does  the  chilling  winter's  morne 
Smile  like  afield  beset  with  corn  ? 
Or  smell  like  to  a  meade  new-shorne, 
Thus  on  the  sudden  ? — come  and  see 
The  cause,  why  things  thus  fragrant  be." 

HERRICK. 

WHEN  I  woke  the  next  morning,  it  seemed  as  if  all  the 
events  of  the  preceding  evening  had  been  a  dream,  and 
nothing  but  the  identity  of  the  ancient  chamber  convinced  me 
of  their  reality.  While  I  lay  musing  on  my  pillow,  I  heard  the 
sound  of  little  feet  pattering  outside  of  the  door,  and  a  whispering 
consultation.  Presently  a  choir  of  small  voices  chanted  forth  an 
old  Christmas  carol,  the  burden  of  which  was,  — 

"  Rejoice,  our  Saviour  he  was  born 
On  Christmas  Day  in  the  morning." 

I  rose  softly,  slipped  on  my  clothes,  opened  the  door  suddenly, 
and  beheld  one  of  the  most  beautiful  little  fairy  groups  that  a 
painter  could  imagine.  It  consisted  of  a  boy  and  two  girls,  the 
eldest  not  more  than  six,  and  lovely  as  seraphs.  They  were  going 
the  rounds  of  the  house,  singing  at  every  chamber  door;  but 
my  sudden  appearance  frightened  them  into  mute  bashfulness. 
They  remained  for  a  moment  playing  on  their  lips  with  their  fin- 
gers, and  now  and  then  stealing  a  shy  glance  from  under  their 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  51 

eyebrows ;  until,  as  if  by  one  impulse,  they  scampered  away,  and, 
as  they  turned  an  angle  of  the  gallery,  I  heard  them  laughing  in 
triumph  at  their  escape. 

Everything  conspired  to  produce  kind  and  happy  feelings  in 
this  stronghold  of  old-fashioned  hospitality.  The  window  of  my 
chamber  looked  out  upon  what  in  summer  would  have  been  a 
beautiful  landscape.  There  was  a  sloping  lawn,  a  fine  stream 
winding  at  the  foot  of  it,  and  a  tract  of  park  beyond,  with  noble 
clumps  of  trees,  and  herds  of  deer.  At  a  distance  was  a  neat 
hamlet,  with  the  smoke  from  the  cottage  chimneys  hanging  over 
it,  and  a  church  with  its  dark  spire  in  strong  relief  against  the 
clear,  cold  sky.  The  house  was  surrounded  with  evergreens,  ac- 
cording to  the  English  custom,  which  would  have  given  almost 
an  appearance  of  summer ;  but  the  morning  was  extremely  frosty. 
The  light  vapor  of  the  preceding  evening  had  been  precipitated 
by  the  cold,  and  covered  all  the  trees  and  every  blade  of  grass 
with  its  fine  crystallizations.  The  rays  of  a  bright  morning  sun 
had  a  dazzling  effect  among  the  glittering  foliage.  A  robin, 
perched  upon  the  top  of  a  mountain  ash  that  hung  its  clusters  of 
red  berries  just  before  my  window,  was  basking  himself  in  the 
sunshine,  and  piping  a  few  querulous  notes ;  and  a  peacock  was 
displaying  all  the  glories  of  his  train,  and  strutting  with  the  pride 
and  gravity  of  a  Spanish  grandee l  on  the  terrace  walk  below. 

I  had  scarcely  dressed  myself,  when  a  servant  appeared  to 
invite  me  to  family  prayers.  He  showed  me  the  way  to  a  small 
chapel  in  the  old  wing  of  the  house,  where  I  found  the  principal 
part  of  the  family  already  assembled  in  a  kind  of  gallery,  fur- 
nished with  cushions,  hassocks,  and  large  prayer-books :  the  ser- 
vants were  seated  on  benches  below.  The  old  gentleman  read 
prayers  from  a  desk  in  front  of  the  gallery,  and  Master  Simon 
acted  as  clerk,  and  made  the  responses ;  and  I  must  do  him  the 
justice  to  say  that  he  acquitted  himself  with  great  gravity  and 
decorum. 

The  service  was  followed  by  a  Christmas  carol,  which  Mr. 

1  A  Spanish  nobleman,  especially  one  of  the  first  rank  (Spanish,  grande). 


52  IRVING. 

Bracebridge  himself  had  constructed  from  a  poem  of  his  favor- 
ite author,  Herrick ;  and  it  had  been  adapted  to  a  church  mel- 
ody by  Master  Simon.  As  there  were  several  good  voices 
among  the  household,  the  effect  was  extremely  pleasing ;  but  I 
was  particularly  gratified  by  the  exaltation  of  heart,  and  sudden 
sally  of  grateful  feeling,  with  which  the  worthy  Squire  delivered 
one  stanza ;  his  eye  glistening,  and  his  voice  rambling  out  of  all 
the  bounds  of  time  and  tune, — 

"  'Tis  them  that  crown'st  my  glittering  hearth 

With  guiltless  mirth, 
And  giv'st  me  Wassaile  bowles  to  drink 

Spic'd  to  the  brink : 
Lord,  'tis  thy  plenty-dropping  hand 

That  soiles  my  land  : l 
And  giv'st  me  for  my  bushell  sowne, 

Twice  ten  for  one." 

I  afterwards  understood  that  early  morning  service  was  read 
on  every  Sunday  and  saint's  day  throughout  the  year,  either  by 
Mr.  Bracebridge  or  some  member  of  the  family.  It  was  once 
almost  universally  the  case  at  the  seats  of  the  nobility  and  gen- 
try of  England,  and  it  is  much  to  be  regretted  that  the  custom  is 
falling  into  neglect ;  for  the  dullest  observer  must  be  sensible  of 
the  order  and  serenity  prevalent  in  those  households  where  the 
occasional  exercise  of  a  beautiful  form  of  worship  in  the  morning 
gives,  as  it  were,  the  keynote  to  every  temper  for  the  day,  and 
attunes  every  spirit  to  harmony. 

Our  breakfast  consisted  of  what  the  Squire  denominated  true 
old  English  fare.  He  indulged  in  some  bitter  lamentations  over 
modern  breakfasts  of  tea  and  toast,  which  he  censured  as  among 
the  causes  of  modern  effeminacy  and  weak  nerves,  and  the  de- 
cline of  old  English  heartiness ;  and,  though  he  admitted  them  to 
his  table  to  suit  the  palates  of  his  guests,  yet  there  was  a  brave 
display  of  cold  meats,  wine,  and  ale  on  the  sideboard. 

After  breakfast  I  walked  about  the  grounds  with  Frank  Brace- 

1  Enriches  the  soil,  and  sends  a  plentiful  harvest. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  53 

bridge  and  Master  Simon,  or  Mr.  Simon,  as  he  was  called  by 
everybody  but  the  Squire.  We  were  escorted  by  a  number  of 
gentlemanlike  dogs,  that  seemed  loungers  about  the  establishment, 
from  the  frisking  spaniel  to  the  steady  old  stag-hound,  the  last  of 
which  was  of  a  race  that  had  been  in  the  family  time  out  of  mind. 
They  were  all  obedient  to  a  dog-whistle  which  hung  to  Master 
Simon's  buttonhole,  and  in  the  midst  of  their  gambols  would  glance 
an  eye  occasionally  upon  a  small  switch  he  carried  in  his  hand. 

The  old  mansion  had  a  still  more  venerable  look  in  the  yellow 
sunshine  than  by  pale  moonlight ;  and  I  could  not  but  feel  the 
force  of  the  Squire's  idea,  that  the  formal  terraces,  heavily  molded 
balustrades,  and  clipped  yew-trees,  carried  with  them  an  air  of 
proud  aristocracy. 

There  appeared  to  be  an  unusual  number  of  peacocks  about 
the  place ;  and  I  was  making  some  remarks  upon  what  I  termed 
a  flock  of  them,  that  were  basking  under  a  sunny  wall,  when 
I  was  gently  corrected  in  my  phraseology  by  Master  Simon, 
who  told  me,  that,  according  to  the  most  ancient  and  approved 
treatise  on  hunting,  I  must  say  a  muster  of  peacocks.  "In 
the  same  way,"  added  he,  with  a  slight  air  of  pedantry,  "we 
say  a  flight  of  doves  or  swallows ;  a  bevy  of  quails ;  a  herd 
of  deer,  of  wrens,  or  cranes;  a  skulk  of  foxes;  or  a  building 
of  rooks."  He  went  on  to  inform  me,  that,  according  to  Sir 
Anthony  Fitzherbert,1  we  ought  to  ascribe  to  this  bird  "  both  un- 
derstanding and  glory ;  for,  being  praised,  he  will  presently  set 
up  his  tail,  chiefly  against  the  sun,  to  the  intent  you  may  the  bet- 
ter behold  the  beauty  thereof.  But  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf,  when 
his  tail  falleth,  he  will  mourn  and'  hide  himself  in  corners,  till  his 
tail  come  again  as  it  was."  2 

1  An  eminent  English  lawyer,  who  wrote,  in  1523,  The  Book  of  Hus- 
bandry,—  the  first  published  work  on  agriculture  in  the  English  language. 

2  The  peacock  is  said  to  be  the  vainest  of  birds.     It  came  originally  from 
India.     It  was  there  that  Alexander  the  Great  saw  it  for  the  first  time.     He 
was  so  impressed  with  its  magnificent  plumage,  that  he  forbade  all  persons, 
under  pain  of  death,  to'  kill  any. 


54  IRVING. 

I  could  not  help  smiling  at  this  display  of  small  erudition  on  so 
whimsical  a  subject :  but  I  found  that  the  peacocks  were  birds 
of  some  consequence  at  the  hall;  for  Frank  Bracebridge  in- 
formed me  that  they  were  great  favorites  with  his  father,  who 
was  extremely  careful  to  keep  up  the  breed,  partly  because  they 
belonged  to  chivalry,  and  were  in  great  request  at  the  stately 
banquets  of  the  olden  time,1  and  partly  because  they  had  a  pomp 
and  magnificence  about  them  highly  becoming  an  old  family 
mansion.  Nothing,  he  was  accustomed  to  say,  had  an  air  of 
greater  state  and  dignity  than  a  peacock  perched  upon  an  antique 
stone  balustrade. 

Master  Simon  had  now  to  hurry  off,  having  an  appointment  at 
the  parish  church  with  the  village  choristers,  who  were  to  perform 
some  music  of  his  selection.  There  was  something  extremely 
agreeable  in  the  cheerful  flow  of  animal  spirits  of  the  little  man ; 
and  I  confess  I  had  been  somewhat  surprised  at  his  apt  quota- 
tions from  authors  who  certainly  were  not  in  the  range  of  every- 
day reading.  I  mentioned  this  last  circumstance  to  Frank 
Bracebridge,  who  told  me  with  a  smile  that  Master  Simon's  whole 
stock  of  erudition  was  confined  to  some  half  a  dozen  old  authors, 
which  the  Squire  had  put  into  his  hands,  and  which  he  read  over 
and  over  whenever  he  had  a  studious  fit,  as  he  sometimes  had  on 
a  rainy  day  or  a  long  winter  evening.  Sir  Anthony  Fitzherbert's 
"  Book  of  Husbandry  ;  "  Markham's  "  Country  Contentments ;"  2 
the  "  Tretyse  of  Hunting,"  by  Sir  Thomas  Cockayne,3  Knight ; 
Izaak  Walton's  4  "  Angler ; "  and  two  or  three  more  such  ancient 

1  Quintus  Hortensius,  the  orator.,  was  the  first  to  have  peacocks  served 
at  a  banquet.     After  this  no  banquet  was  complete  without  this  dish. 

2  See  Note  2,  p.  55. 

3  Cokaine  or  Cokayn  (written  also  Cockaine),  an  English  Catholic  (born  in 
Derbyshire,  1608 ;  died,  1684),  was  a  Royalist  in  the  civil  war.    He  composed 
some  worthless  plays  and  doggerel  poems,  which  are  only  worthy  of  notice 
on  account  of  the  anecdotes  they  furnish  of  contemporary  authors  or  actors. 

<  A  celebrated  English  writer  (born  at  Stafford,  1593;  died,  1683).  His 
principal  work,  The  Complete  Angler  or  Contemplative  Man's  Recreation, 
was  published  in  1653. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  55 

worthies  of  the  pen, — were  his  standard  authorities;  and,  like 
all  men  who  know  but  a  few  books,  he  looked  up  to  them  with 
a  kind  of  idolatry,  and  quoted  them  on  all  occasions.  As  to  his 
songs,  they  were  chiefly  picked  out  of  old  books  in  the  Squire's 
library,  and  adapted  to  tunes  that  were  popular  among  the  choice 
spirits  of  the  last  century.  His  practical  application  of  scraps  of 
literature,  however,  had  caused  him  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  prod- 
igy of  book  knowledge  by  all  the  grooms,  huntsmen,  and  small 
sportsmen  of  the  neighborhood. 

While  we  were  talking,  we  heard  the  distant  toll  of  the  vil- 
lage bell,  and  I  was  told  that  the  Squire  was  a  little  particular  in 
having  his  household  at  church  on  a  Christmas  morning,  consid- 
ering it  a  day  of  pouring  out  of  thanks  and  rejoicing ;  for,  as  old 
Tusser 1  observed,  — 

"At  Christmas  be  merry,  and  thankful  withal, 
And  feast  thy  poor  neighbors,  the  great  with  the  small." 

"If  you  are  disposed  to  go  to  church,"  said  Frank  Brace- 
bridge,  "  I  can  promise  you  a  spe'cimen  of  my  cousin  Simon's 
musical  achievements.  As  the  church  is  destitute  of  an  organ,  he 
has  formed  a  band  from  the  village  amateurs,  and  established  a 
musical  club  for  their  improvement ;  he  has  also  sorted  a  choir, 
as  he  sorted  my  father's  pack  of  hounds,  according  to  the  direc- 
tions of  Jervaise  Markham  2  in  his  '  Country  Contentments.'  For 
the  bass  he  has  sought  out  all  the  '  deep,  solemn  mouths,'  and  for 
the  tenor  the  '  loud-ringing  mouth,'  among  the  country  bump- 
kins ;  and  for  '  sweet  mouths,'  he  has  culled  with  curious  taste 
among  the  prettiest  lasses  in  the  neighborhood,  though  these  last, 
he  affirms,  are  the  most  difficult  to  keep  in  tune,  your  pretty  fe- 

1  Thomas  Tusser  (1527-80),  poet,  was  born  at  Essex,  England.     His 
poems  on  husbandry  have  the  charm  of  simplicity  and  directness,  and  during 
his  life  they  went  through  a  number  of  editions. 

2  Jervaise  (or  Gervase)  Markham,  an  English  soldier  and  miscellaneous 
writer,  was  born  in  Nottinghamshire  about  1570.    He  served  in  the  Royalist 
army  in  the  civil  war,  and  died  in  1655. 


56  IRVING. 

male  singer  being  exceedingly  wayward  and  capricious,  and  very 
liable  to  accident." 

As  the  morning,  though  frosty,  was  remarkably  fine  and  clear, 
the  most  of  the  family  walked  to  the  church,  which  was  a  very 
old  building  of  gray  stone,  and  stood  near  a  village,  about  half  a 
^nile  from  the  park  gate.  Adjoining  it  was  a  low,  snug  parson- 
age, which  seemed  coeval  with  the  church.  The  front  of  it  was 
perfectly  matted  with  a  yew-tree  that  had  been  trained  against 
its  walls,  through  the  dense  foliage  of  which  apertures  had 
been  formed  to  admit  light  into  the  small  antique  lattices.  As 
we  passed  this  sheltered  nest,  the  parson  issued  forth,  and  pre- 
ceded us. 

I  had  expected  to  see  a  sleek,  well-conditioned  pastor,  such  as 
is  often  found  in  a  snug  living  in  the  vicinity  of  a  rich  patron's 
table,  but  I  was  disappointed.  The  parson  was  a  little,  meager, 
black-looking  man,  with  a  grizzled  wig  that  was  too  wide,  and 
stood  off  from  each  ear,  so  that  his  head  seemed  to  have  shrunk 
away  within  it,  like  a  dried  filbert  in  its  shell.  He  wore  a  rusty 
coat,  with  great  skirts,  and  pockets  that  would  have  held  the 
church  Bible  and  Prayer  Book ;  and  his  small  legs  seemed  still 
smaller,  from  being  planted  in  large  shoes  decorated  with  enor- 
mous buckles. 

I  was  informed  by  Frank  Bracebridge  that  the  parson  had 
been  a  chum  of  his  father's  at  Oxford,1  and  had  received  this 
living  shortly  after  the  latter  had  come  to  his  estate.  He  was  a 
complete  black-letter 2  hunter,  and  would  scarcely  read  a  work 
printed  in  the  Roman  character.  The  editions  of  Caxton  and 
Wynkin  de  Worde  were  his  delight ;  and  he  was  indefatigable  in 
his  researches  after  such  Old  English  writers  as  have  fallen  into 
oblivion  from  their  worthlessness.  In  deference,  perhaps,  to  the 
notions  of  Mr.  Bracebridge,  he  had  made  diligent  investigations 

1  The  famous  university  situated  in  Oxford,  the  county  town  of  Oxford- 
shire. 

2  A  type  which  appeared  in  England  about  the  year  1480.     It  was  used 
especially  for  Bibles,  law-books,  royal  proclamations,  etc. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  57 

into  the  festive  rites  and  holiday  customs  of  former  times,  and 
had  been  as  zealous  in  the  inquiry  as  if  he  had  been  a  boon  com- 
panion ;  but  it  was  merely  with  that  plodding  spirit  with  which 
men  of  adust  temperament  follow  up  any  track  of  study,  merely 
because  it  is  denominated  learning;  indifferent  to  its  intrinsic 
nature,  whether  it  be  the  illustration  of  the  wisdom  or  of  the  rib- 
aldry and  obscenity  of  antiquity.  He  had  pored  over  these  old  vol- 
umes so  intensely,  that  they  seemed  to  have  been  reflected  into 
his  countenance ;  which,  if  the  face  be  indeed  an  index  of  the 
mind,  might  be  compared  to  a  title-page  of  black-letter. 

On  reaching  the  church  porch,  we  found  the  parson  rebuking 
the  gray-headed  sexton  for  having  used  mistletoe  among  the 
greens  with  which  the  church  was  decorated.  It  was,  he  o> 
served,  an  unholy  plant,  profaned  by  having  been  used  by  the 
Druids  in  their  mystic  ceremonies ;  and  though  it  might  be  inno- 
cently employed  in  the  festive  ornamenting  of  halls  and  kitchens, 
yet  it  had  been  deemed  by  the  fathers  of  the  Church  as  unhai- 
lowed,  and  totally  unfit  for  sacred  purposes.  So  tenacious  was 
he  on  this  point,  that  the  poor  sexton  was  obliged  to  strip  down 
a  great  part  of  the  humble  trophies  of  his  taste,  before  the  parson 
would  consent  to  enter  upon  the  service  of  the  day. 

The  interior  of  the  church  was  venerable  but  simple.  On  fnv, 
walls  were  several  mural  monuments  of  the  Bracebridges ;  and 
just  beside  the  altar  was  a  tomb  of  ancient  workmanship,  on 
which  Jay  the  effigy  of  a  warrior  in  armor,  with  his  legs  crossed, 
—  a  sign  of  his  having  been  a  crusader.  I  was  told  it  was  one 
of  the  family  who  had  signalized  himself  in  the  Holy  Land,  and 
the  same  whose  picture  hung  over  the  fireplace  in  the  hall. 

During  service,  Master  Simon  stood  up  in  the  pew,  and  re- 
peated the  responses  very  audibly,  evincing  that  kind  of  ceremo- 
nious devotion  punctually  observed  by  a  gentleman  of  the  old 
school,  and  a  man  of  old  family  connections.  I  observed,  too, 
that  he  turned  over  the  leaves  of  a  folio  Prayer  Book  with  some- 
thing of  a  flourish ;  possibly  to  show  off  an  enormous  seal-ring 
which  enriched  one  of  his  fingers,  and  which  had  the  look  of  a 


58  IRVING. 

family  relic.  But  he  was  evidently  most  solicitous  about  the 
musical  part  of  the  service,  keeping  his  eye  fixed  intently  on  the 
choir,  and  beating  time  with  much  gesticulation  and  emphasis. 

The  orchestra  was  in  a  small  gallery,  and  presented  a  most 
whimsical  grouping  of  heads,  piled  one  above  the  other,  among 
which  I  particularly  noticed  that  of  the  village  tailor,  a  pale  fel- 
low with  a  retreating  forehead  and  chin,  who  played  on  the  clari- 
net, and  seemed  to  have  blown  his  face  to  a  point ;  and  there 
was  another,  a  short,  pursy  man,  stooping  and  laboring  at  a  bass 
viol,  so  as  to  show  nothing  but  the  top  of  a  round,  bald  head, 
like  the  egg  of  an  ostrich.  There  were  two  or  three  pretty  faces 
among  the  female  singers,  to  which  the  keen  air  of  a  frosty 
morning  had  given  a  bright,  rosy  tint ;  but  the  gentlemen  choris- 
ters had  evidently  been  chosen,  like  old  Cremona l  fiddles,  more 
for  tone  than  looks ;  and,  as  several  had  to  sing  from  the  same 
book,  there  were  clusterings  of  odd  physiognomies,  not  unlike 
those  groups  of  cherubs  we  sometimes  see  on  country  tomb- 
stones. 

The  usual  services  of  the  choir  were  managed  tolerably  well, 
the  vocal  parts  generally  lagging  a  little  behind  the  instrumental, 
and  some  loitering  fiddler  now  and  then  making  up  for  lost  time 
by  traveling  over  a  passage  with  prodigious  celerity,  and  clearing 
more  bars  than  the  keenest  fox-hunter  to  be  in  at  the  death.  But 
the  great  trial  was  an  anthem  that  had  been  prepared  and  ar- 
ranged by  Master  Simon,  and  on  which  he  had  founded  great 
expectation.  Unluckily,  there  was  a  blunder  at  the  very  outset. 
The  musicians  became  flurried ;  Master  Simon  was  in  a  fever ; 
everything  went  on  lamely  and  irregularly  until  they  came  to  a 
chorus  beginning,  "  Now  let  us  sing  with  one  accord,"  which 
seemed  to  be  a  signal  for  parting  company.  All  became  discord 
and  confusion.  Each  shifted  for  himself,  and  got  to  the  end  as 

1  The  capital  of  a  province  of  Lombardy,  also  named  Cremona,  formerly 
celebrated  for  its  violins  and  other  musical  instruments.  Great  prices  were 
paid  for  violins  made  in  Cremona.  The  manufacture  of  these  has  now  de- 
clined. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  59 

well,  or  rather  as  soon,  as  he  could,  excepting  one  old  chorister 
in  a  pair  of  horn  spectacles,  bestriding  and  pinching  a  long,  sono- 
rous nose,  who,  happening  to  stand  a  little  apart,  and  being 
wrapped  up  in  his  own  melody,  kept  on  a  quivering  course,  wrig- 
gling his  head,  ogling  his  book,  and  winding  all  up  by  a  nasal  solo 
of  at  least  three  bars'  duration. 

The  parson  gave  us  a  most  erudite  sermon  on  the  rites  and 
ceremonies  of  Christmas,  and  the  propriety  of  observing  it  not 
merely  as  a  day  of  thanksgiving,  but  of  rejoicing ;  supporting  the 
correctness  of  his  opinions  by  the  earliest  usagep  of  the  Church, 
and  enforcing  them  by  the  authorities  of  Theophilus  of  Caesarea,1 
St.  Cypt^n,2  St.  Chrysbsfcom,3  St.  Aufcusllne,4  and!  a  cloud  more 
of  saints  and  fathers,  from  whom  he  made  copious  quotations. 
I  was  a  little  at  a  loss  to  perceive  the  necessity  of  such  a  mighty 
array  of  forces  to  maintain  a  point  which  no  one  present  seemed 
inclined  to  dispute,  but  I  soon  found  that  the  good  man  had  a 
legion  of  ideal  adversaries  to  contend  with,  having,  in  the  course 
of  his  researches  on  the  subject  of  Christmas,  got  completely  em- 
broiled in  the  sectarian  controversies  of  the  Revolution,  when  the 
Puritans  made  such  a  fierce  assault  upon  the  ceremonies  of  the 
Church,  and  poor  old  Christmas  was  driven  out  of  the  land  by 
proclamation  of  Parliament.5  The  worthy  parson  lived  but  with 
times  past,  and  knew  but  little  of  the  present. 

1  Instructor  of  Justinian,  and  abbot  of  St.  Alexander  at  Prisrend  in  Mace- 
donia, afterwards  Bishop  of  Sardica  in  517. 

2  Bishop  of  Carthage  in  the  third  century,  one  of  the  most  illustrious  men 
in  the  early  history  of  the  Church,  and  one  of  the  most  notable  of  its  early 
martyrs.      He  was  ordered  to  be  beheaded  Sept.    14,   258,   by  Emperor 
Valerian. 

3  The  most  famous  of  the  Greek  fathers  (born  at  Antioch  about  347). 
The  festival  of  St.  Chrysostom  is  observed  both  in  the  Greek  and  in  the 
Latin  Church,  —  by  the  former  on  Nov.  13,  and  by  the  latter  on  Jan.  27. 

4  The  greatest  of  the  four  great  fathers  of  the  Latin  Church  (born  in 
Numidia,  Nov.  13,  A.D.  354). 

5  "  The  House  spent  much  time  this  day  about  the  business  of  the  Navy, 
for  settling  the  affairs  at  sea,  and  before  they  rose,  were  presented  with  a  ter- 


60  IRVING. 

Shut  up  among  worm-eaten  tomes  in  the  retirement  of  his  an- 
tiquated little  study,  the  pages  of  old  times  were  to  him  as  the 
gazettes  of  the  day,  while  the  era  of  the  Revolution  was  mere 
modern  history.  He  forgot  that  nearly  two  centuries  had  elapsed 
since  the  fiery  persecution  of  poor  mince  pie  throughout  the  land, 
when  plum  porridge  was  denounced  as  "  mere  popery,"  and  roast- 
beef  as  anti-Christian,  and  that  Christmas  had  been  brought  in 
again  triumphantly  with  the  merry  court  of  King  Charles  at  the 
Restoration.  He  kindled  into  warmth  with  the  ardor  of  his  con- 
test, and  the  host  of  imaginary  foes  with  whom  he  had  to  com- 
bat. He  had  a  stubborn  conflict  with  old  Prynne J  and  two  or 
three  other  forgotten  champions  of  the  Roundheads,2  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Christmas  festivity,  and  concluded  by  urging  his  hearers, 
in  the  most  solemn  and  affecting  manner,  to  stand  to  the  tradi- 
tional customs  of  their  fathers,  and  feast  and  make  merry  on  this 
joyful  anniversary  of  the  Church. 

I  have  seldom  known  a  sermon  attended  apparently  with  more 
immediate  effects ;  for,  on  leaving  the  church,  the  congregation 
seemed,  one  and  all,  possessed  with  the  gayety  of  spirit  so  ear- 

rible  remonstrance  against  Christmas  day,  grounded  upon  divine  Scriptures, 
2  Cor.  v.  16,  i  Cor.  xv.  14,  17;  and  in  honor  of  the  Lord's  Day,  grounded 
upon  these  Scriptures,  John  xx.  I,  Rev.  i.  10,  Psalms  cxviii.  24,  Lev.  xxiii. 
7,  II,  Mark  xv.  8,  Psalms  Ixxxiv.  10;  in  which  Christmas  is  called  Anti- 
christ's masse,  and  those  Masse-mongers  and  Papists  who  observe  it,  etc. 
In  consequence  of  which  Parliament  spent  some  time  in  consultation  about 
the  abolition  of  Christmas  day,  passed  orders  to  that  effect,  and  resolved  to 
sit  on  the  following  day,  which  was  commonly  called  Christmas  day."- 
Flying  Eagle  (a  small  gazette  published  Dec.  24,  1652). 

1  William  Prynne  (1600-69)  was  a  Puritan  to  the  core.     He  published  in 
1633  a  book  (Histrio-Mastix)  which  was  an  attack  upon  stage  plays.     The 
Queen  was  very  much  interested  in  the  drama  at  this  time,  and  Prynne's 
offensive  words  were  supposed  to  apply  to  her.    Prynne  was  sentenced  by  the 
Star  Chamber  to  fine,  imprisonment,  and  to  be  set  in  the  pillory,  where  he 
was  to  lose  both  his  ears. 

2  Adherents  of  the  Parliamentary  or  Puritan  party,  as  opposed  to  the 
Royalists  ;   called  Roundheads  in  derisive  allusion  to  their  close-cut  hair,  the 
Royalists  usually  wearing  theirs  long. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  61 

nestly  enjoined  by  their  pastor.  The  elder  folks  gathered  in  knots 
in  the  churchyard,  greeting  and  shaking  hands ;  and  the  children 
ran  about  crying,  "  Ule !  Ule ! "  and  repeating  some  uncouth 
rhymes,1  which  the  parson,  who  had  joined  us,  informed  me  had 
been  handed  down  from  days  of  yore.  The  villagers  doffed  their 
hats  to  the  Squire  as  he  passed,  giving  him  the  good  wishes  of  the 
season  with  every  appearance  of  heartfelt  sincerity,  and  were  in- 
vited by  him  to  the  hall,  to  take  something  to  keep  out  the  cold 
of  .the  weather ;  and  I  heard  blessings  uttered  by  several  of  the 
poor,  which  convinced  me,  that,  in  the  midst  of  his  enjoyments, 
the  worthy  old  cavalier  had  not  forgotten  the  true  Christmas  vir- 
tue of  charity. 

On  our  way  homeward  his  heart  seemed  overflowing  with  gen- 
erous and  happy  feelings.  As  we  passed  over  a  rising  ground 
which  commanded  something  of  a  prospect,  the  sounds  of  rustic 
merriment  now  and  then  reached  our  ears.  The  Squire  paused 
for  a  few  moments,  and  looked  around  with  an  air  of  inexpressi- 
ble benignity.  The  beauty  of  the  day  was  of  itself  sufficient  to 
inspire  philanthropy.  Notwithstanding  the  frostiness  of  the  morn- 
ing, the  sun,  in  his  cloudless  journey,  had  acquired  sufficient  power 
to  melt  away  the  thin  covering  of  snow  from  every  southern 
declivity,  and  to  bring  out  the  living  green  which  adorns  an 
English  landscape  even  in  mid-winter.  Large  tracts  of  smiling 
verdure  contrasted  with  the  dazzling  whiteness  of  the  shaded 
slopes  and  hollows.  Every  sheltered  bank  on  which  the  broad 
rays  rested  yielded  its  silver  rill  of  cold  and  limpid  water,  glitter- 
ing through  the  dripping  grass,  and  sent  up  slight  exhalations  to 
contribute  to  the  thin  haze  that  hung  just  above  the  surface  of 
the  earth.  •  There  was  something  truly  cheering  in  this  triumph 
of  warmth  and  verdure  over  the  frosty  thraldom  of  winter :  it 
was,  as  the  Squire  observed,  an  emblem  of  Christmas  hospital- 


1  IRVING'S  NOTE:  — 


1  Ule !    Ule ! 

Three  puddings  in  a  pule ; 
Crack  nuts  and  cry  ule !  " 


62  IRVING. 

ity,  breaking  through  the  chills  of  ceremony  and  selfishness,  and 
thawing  every  heart  into  a  flow.  He  pointed  with  pleasure  to 
the  indications  of  good  cheer  reeking  from  the  chimneys  of  the 
comfortable  farmhouses  and  low  thatched  cottages.  "  I  love," 
said  he,  "to  see  this  day  well  kept  by  rich  and  poor.  It  is  a 
great  thing  to  have  one  day  in  the  year,  at  least,  when  you  are 
sure  of  being  welcome  wherever  you  go,  and  of  having,  as  it 
were,  the  world  all  thrown  open  to  you ;  and  I  am  almost  dis- 
posed to  join  with  Poor  Robin,  in  his  malediction  on  every  churl- 
ish enemy  to  this  honest  festival :  — 

"  '  Those  who  at  Christmas  do  repine, 

And  would  fain  hence  dispatch  him, 
May  they  with  old  Duke  Humphry  dine, 
Or  else  may  Squire  Ketch1  catch  'em.'  " 

The  Squire  went  on  to  lament  the  deplorable  decay  of  the 
games  and  amusements  which  were  once  prevalent  at  this  season 
among  the  lower  orders,  and  countenanced  by  the  higher,  when 
the  old  halls  of  castles  and  manor-houses  were  thrown  open 
at  daylight,  when  the  tables  were  covered  with  brawn  and  beef 
and  humming  ale,  when  the  harp  and  the  carol  resounded  all  day 
long,  and  when  rich  and  poor  were  alike  welcome  to  enter  and 
make  merry.2  "  Our  old  games  and  local  customs,"  said  he, 
"  had  a  great  effect  in  making  the  peasant  fond  of  his  home,  and 
the  promotion  of  them  by  the  gentry  made  him  fond  of  his  lord. 

1  Alluding  to  Jack  Ketch,  the  hangman  (1678).     Ketch  executed  Lord 
Russell  and  the  Duke  of  Monmouth.     The  name  has  become  proverbial  for 
hangmen. 

2  "  An  English  gentleman  at  the  opening  of  the  great  day,  i.e.  on  Christ- 
mas day  in  the  morning,  had  all  his  tenants  and  neighbors  enter  his  hall  by 
daybreak.     The  strong  beer  was  broached,  and  the  black  jacks  went  plenti- 
fully about  with  toast,  sugar,  and  nutmeg,  and  good  Cheshire  cheese.     The 
Hackin  (the  great  sausage)  must  be  boiled  by  daybreak,  or  else  two  young 
men  must  take  the  maiden  (i.e.  the  cook)  by  the  arms  and  run  her  round 
the  market  place  till  she  is  shamed  of  her  laziness."  —  Round  about  our  Sea- 
Coal  Fire. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  63 

They  made  the  times  merrier  and  kinder  and  better,  and  I  can 
truly  say,  with  one  of  our  old  poets, — 

"  '  I  like  them  well  —  the  curious  preciseness 
And  all-pretended  gravity  of  those 
That  seek  to  banish  hence  these  harmless  sports, 
Have  thrust  away  much  ancient  honesty.' 

"The  nation,"  continued  he,  "is  altered.  We  have  almost 
lost  our  simple,  true-hearted  peasantry.  They  have  broken 
asunder  from  the  higher  classes,  and  seem  to  think  their  interests 
are  separate.  They  have  become  too  knowing,  and  begin  to 
read  newspapers,  listen  to  ale-house  politicians,  and  talk  of  reform. 
I  think  one  mode  to  keep  them  in  good  humor  in  these  hard 
times  would  be  for  the  nobility  and  gentry  to  pass  more  time  on 
their  estates,  mingle  more  among  the  country  people,  and  set  the 
merry  old  English  games  going  again." 

Such  was  the  good  Squire's  project  for  mitigating  public  dis- 
content ;  and,  indeed,  he  had  once  attempted  to  put  his  doctrine 
in  practice,  and  a  few  years  before  had  kept  open  house  during 
the  holidays  in  the  old  style.  The  country  people,  however,  did 
not  understand  how  to  play  their  parts  in  the  scene  of  hospitality. 
Many  uncouth  circumstances  occurred.  The  manor  was  overrun 
by  all  the  vagrants  of  the  country,  and  more  beggars  drawn  into 
the  neighborhood  in  one  week  than  the  parish  officers  could  get 
rid  of  in  a  year.  Since  then  he  had  contented  himself  with  in- 
viting the  decent  part  of  the  neighboring  peasantry  to  call  at  the 
hall  on  Christmas  Day,  and  with  distributing  beef  and  bread  and 
ale  among  the  poor,  that  they  might  make  merry  in  their  own 
dwellings. 

We  had  not  been  long  home,  when  the  sound  of  music  was 
heard  from  a  distance.  A  band  of  country  lads,  without  coats, 
their  shirt-sleeves  fancifully  tied  with  ribbons,  their  hats  decorated 
with  greens,  and  clubs  in  their  hands,  were  seen  advancing  up  the 
avenue,  followed  by  a  large  number  of  villagers  and  peasantry. 
They  stopped  before  the  hall  door,  where  the  music  struck  up  a 


64  IRVING. 

peculiar  air,  and  the  lads  performed  a  curious  and  intricate 
dance,  advancing,  retreating,  and  striking  their  clubs  together, 
keeping  exact  time  to  the  music ;  while  one,  whimsically  crowned 
with  a  fox's  skin,  the  tail  of  which  flaunted  down  his  back,  kept 
capering  round  the  skirts  of  the  dance,  and  rattling  a  Christmas 
box 1  with  many  antic  gesticulations. 

The  Squire  eyed  this  fanciful  exhibition  with  great  interest  and 
delight,  and  gave  me  a  full  account  of  its  origin,  which  he  traced 
to  the  times  when  the  Romans  held  possession  of  the  island; 
plainly  proving  that  this  was  a  lineal  descendant  of  the  sword 
dance  of  the  ancients.  It  was  now,  he  said,  nearly  extinct,  but 
he  had  accidentally  met  with  traces  of  it  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  had  encouraged  its  revival ;  though,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  was 
too  apt  to  be  followed  up  by  rough  cudgel  play,2  and  broken 
heads  in  the  evening. 

After  the  dance  was  concluded,  the  whole  party  was  entertained 
with  brawn  and  beef,  and  stout  home-brewed.  The  Squire  him- 
self mingled  among  the  rustics,  and  was  received  with  awkward 
demonstrations  of  deference  and  regard.  It  is  true,  I  perceived 
two  or  three  of  the  younger  peasants,  as  they  were  raising  their 
tankards  to  their  mouths,  when  the  Squire's  back  was  turned, 
making  something  of  a  grimace,  and  giving  each  other  the  wink ; 
but,  the  moment  they  caught  my  eye,  they  pulled  grave  faces, 

1  This  title  has  been  said  to  have  been  derived  from  the  box  which  was 
kept  on  board  of  every  vessel  that  sailed  upon  a  distant  voyage,  for  the  re- 
ception of  donations  to  the  priest,  who,  in  return,  was  expected  to  offer 
masses  for  the  safety  of  the  expedition,  to  the  particular  saint  having  charge 
of  the  ship,  and,  above  all,  of  the  box.     The  mass  was  at  that  time  called 
"  Christ  mass,"  and  the  boxes  kept  to  pay  for  it  were  of  course  called 
"  Christ-mass  boxes."    The  poor  were  in  the  habit  of  begging  from  the  rich 
to  contribute  to  the  mass  boxes,  and  hence  the  title  which  has  descended  to 
our  day.    A  relic  of  these  ancient  boxes  yet  exists,  in  the  earthen  or  wooden 
box,  with  a  slit  in  it,  which  still  bears  the  same  name,  and  is  carried  by  ser- 
vants and  cir'ldren  for  the  purpose  of  gathering  money  at  Christmas,  being 
broken  only  when  the  period  of  collection  is  supposed  to  be  over. 

2  A  bout  with  cudgels.     Cudgels  were  thick  short  sticks,  or  staves. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  65 

and  were  exceedingly  demure.  With  Master  Simon,  however, 
they  all  seemed  more  at  their  ease.  His  varied  occupations  and 
amusements  had  made  him  well  known  throughout  the  neigh- 
borhood. He  was  a  visitor  at  every  farmhouse  and  cottage ; 
gossiped  with  the  farmers  and  their  wives ;  romped  with  their 
daughters ;  and,  like  that  type  of  a  vagrant  bachelor  the  humble- 
bee,  tolled  the  sweets  from  all  the  rosy  lips  of  the  country  round. 

The  bashfulness  of  the  guests  soon  gave  way  before  good  cheer 
and  affability.  There  is  something  genuine  and  affectionate  in 
the  gayety  of  the  lower  orders,  when  it  is  excited  by  the  bounty 
and  familiarity  of  those  above  them.  The  warm  glow  of  grati- 
tude enters  into  their  mirth ;  and  a  kind  word  or  a  small  pleas- 
antry, frankly  uttered  by  a  patron,  gladdens  the  heart  of  the  de- 
pendant more  than  oil  and  wine.  When  the  Squire  had  retired, 
the  merriment  increased ;  and  there  was  much  joking  and  laugh- 
ter, particularly  between  Master  Simon  and  a  hale,  ruddy-faced, 
white-headed  farmer,  who  appeared  to  be  the  wit  of  the  village, 
for  I  observed  all  his  companions  to  wait  with  open  mouths  for 
his  retorts,  and  burst  into  a  gratuitous  laugh  before  they  could 
well  understand  them. 

The  whole  house,  indeed,  seemed  abandoned  to  merriment. 
As  I  passed  to  my  room  to  dress  for  dinner,  I  heard  the  sound 
of  music  in  a  small  court,  and,  looking  through  a  window  that 
commanded  it,  I  perceived  a  band  of  wandering  musicians,  with 
pandean l  pipes  and  tambourine.  A  pretty,  coquettish  house-maid 
was  dancing  a  jig  with  a  smart  country  lad,  while  several  of  the 
other  servants  were  looking  on.  In  the  midst  of  her  sport,  the 
girl  caught  a  glimpse  of  my  face  at  the  window,  and,  coloring 
up,  ran  off  with  an  air  of  roguish  affected  confusion. 

1  Pan,  in  Greek  mythology,  was  the  god  of  forests,  pastures,  and  flocks, 
and  was  the  attributed  inventor  of  the  shepherd's  flute  or  pipe,  the  syrinx,  — 
a  series  of  graduated  tubes  set  together  (open  at  one  end,  and  closed  at  the 
other),  played  by  blowing  across  the  open  ends. 


66  IRVING. 


THE    CHRISTMAS    DINNER. 

"  Lo,  now  is  come  our  joy fuV  st  feast ! 

Let  every  man  be  jolly, 
Each  roome  with  yvie  leaves  is  drest, 

And  every  post  with  holly. 
Now  all  our  neighbours'  chimneys  smoke. 

And  Christmas  blocks  are  burning; 
Their  ovens  they  with  batft  meats  choke, 
And  all  their  spits  are  turning. 

Without  the  door  let  sorrow  lie, 
»        And  if,  for  cold,  it  hap  to  die, 

Wee1 1  bury  '/  in  a  Christmas  pye, 
And  evermore  be  merry." 

WITHERS,  1  Juvenilia. 

I  HAD  finished  my  toilet,  and  was  loitering  with  Frank  Brace- 
bridge  in  the  library,  when  we  heard  a  distant  thwacking 
sound,  which  he  informed  me  was  a  signal  for  the  serving-up  of 
the  dinner.  The  Squire  kept  up  old  customs  in  kitchen  as  well 
as  hall ;  and  the  rolling-pin,  struck  upon  the  dresser  by  the  cook, 
summoned  the  servants  to  carry  in  the  meats. 

' '  Just  in  this  nick  the  cook  knock'd  thrice, 
And  all  the  waiters  in  a  trice, 

His  summons  did  obey ; 
Each  serving  man,  with  dish  in  hand, 
Marched  boldly  up,  like  our  train  band, 

Presented,  and  away."  2 

The  dinner  was  served  up  in  the  great  hall,  where  the  Squire 
always  held  his  Christmas  banquet.  A  blazing,  crackling  fire  of 
logs  had  been  heaped  on  to  warm  the  spacious  apartment,  and 
the  flame  went  sparkling  and  wreathing  up  the  wide-mouthed 
chimney.  The  great  picture  of  the  crusader  and  his  white  horse 
had  been  profusely  decorated  with  greens  for  the  occasion ;  and 

1  Written  also  Wither  and  Wyther.    An  English  poet,  satirist,  and  polit- 
ical writer  (1588-1667). 

2  From  Sir  John  Suckling,  an  English  poet  (born  in  Middlesex  about 
1608,  died  about  1642),  celebrated  as  a  wit  at  the  court  of  Charles  I. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  67 

holly  and  ivy  had  likewise  been  wreathed  round  the  helmet  and 
weapons  on  the  opposite  wall,  which  I  understood  were  the  arms 
of  the  same  warrior.  I  must  own,  by  the  by,  I  had  strong 
doubts  about  the  authenticity  of  the  painting  and  armor  as  hav- 
ing belonged  to  the  crusader,  they  certainly  having  the  stamp  of 
more  recent  days ;  but  I  was  told  that  the  painting  had  been  so 
considered  time  out  of  mind,  and  that,  as  to  the  armor,  it  had 
been  found  in  a  lumber-room,  and  elevated  to  its  present  situa- 
tion by  the  Squire,  who  at  once  determined  it  to  be  the  armor  of 
the  family  hero ;  and,  as  he  was  absolute  authority  on  all  such 
subjects  in  his  own  household,  the  matter  had  passed  into  current 
acceptation.  A  sideboard  was  set  out  just  under  this  chivalric 
j  trophy,  on  which  was  a  display  of  plate  that  might  have  vied  (at 
\  least  in  variety)  with  Belshazzar's l  parade  of  the  vessels  of  the 
temple,  —  "flagons,  cans,  cups,  beakers,  goblets,  basins,  and 
'  ewers,"  the  gorgeous  utensils  of  good  companionship  that  had 
gradually  accumulated  through  many  generations  of  jovial  house- 
keepers. Before  these  stood  the  two  Yule  candles,2  beaming  like 
two  stars  of  the  first  magnitude ;  other  lights  were  distributed  in 
branches ;  and  the  whole  array  glittered  like  a  firmament  of  silver. 
We  were  ushered  into  this  banqueting  scene  with  the  sound  of 
minstrelsy ;  the  old  harper  being  seated  on  a  stool  beside  the  fire- 
place, and  twanging  his  instrument  with  a  vast  deal  more  power 
than  melody.  Never  did  Christmas  board  display  a  more  goodly 
and  gracious  assemblage  of  countenances.  Those  who  were  not 
handsome  were  at  least  happy,  and  happiness  is  a  rare  improver 
of  your  hard-favored  visage.  I  always  consider  an  old  English 
family  as  well  worth  studying  as  a  collection  of  Holbein's  3  por- 

1  Son  of  Nabunahid,  King  of  Babylon ;  conquered  by  the  Persians  and 
Cyrus,  556  B.C.     (Compare  Daniel  v.  2.) 

2  These  were  large  candles  lighted  and  burned  at  Christmas  Eve  festivi- 
ties.    It  was  considered  by  many  bad  luck  if  the  candle  burned  out  before 
the  close  of  the  evening :  and  any  portion  left  was  kept  to  be  burned  at  the 
corpse  watch,  or  lich  wake,  of  the  owner. 

3  Hans  Holbein  (born  at  Griinstadt  in  1497,  died  in  1543)  was  one  of  the 


68  IRVING. 

traits  or  Albert  Diirer's 1  prints.  There  is  much  antiquarian  lore 
to  be  acquired,  much  knowledge  of  the  physiognomies  of  former 
times.  Perhaps  it  may  be  from  having  continually  before  their 
eyes  those  rows  of  old  family  portraits  with  which  the  mansions 
of  this  country  are  stocked :  certain  it  is,  that  the  quaint  features 
of  antiquity  are  often  most  faithfully  perpetuated  in  these  ancient 
lines;  and  I  have  traced  an  old  family  nose  through  a  whole 
picture  gallery,  legitimately  handed  down  from  generation  to 
generation,  almost  from  the  time  of  the  Conquest.  Something 
of  the  kind  was  to  be  observed  in  the  worthy  company  around 
me.  Many  of  their  faces  had  evidently  originated  in  a  Gothic 
age,  and  been  merely  copied  by  succeeding  generations;  and 
there  was  one  little  girl  in  particular,  of  staid  demeanor,  with  a 
high  Roman  nose  and  an  antique  vinegar  aspect,  who  was  a 
great  favorite  of  the  Squire's,  being,  as  he  said,  a  Bracebridge 
all  over,  and  the  very  counterpart  of  one  of  his  ancestors  who 
figured  in  the  court  of  Henry  VIII.2 

C  The  parson  said  grace,  which  was  not  a  short  familiar  one, 
such  as  is  commonly  addressed  to  the  Deity  in  these  unceremo- 
nious days,  but  a  long,  courtly,  well-worded  one  of  the  ancient 
school.  There  was  now  a  pause,  as  if  something  was  expected, 
when  suddenly  the  butler  entered  the  hall  with  some  degree  of 
bustle.  He  was  attended  by  a  servant  on  each  side  with  a  large 
wax-light,  and  bore  a  silver  dish  on  which  was  an  enormous  pig's 

most  celebrated  German  painters.  Henry  VIII.  gave  him  abundant  employ- 
ment, and  also  bestowed  upon  him  a  large  pension.  Holbein  was  also  a 
skillful  architect  and  wood-engraver.  His  greatest  pictures  were,  "  Dance  of 
Death,"  the  "  Adoration  of  the  Shepherds  and  the  Kings,"  and  the  "  Last 
Supper." 

1  Albrecht  Diirer  (born  at  Nuremberg  in  1471 ;  died  there,  April,  1528) 
nas  a  name,  in  the  history  of  art,  equal  to  that  of  the  greatest  Italians.     A 
very  choice  collection  of  his  drawings  (a  large  volume),  forming  part  of  Lord 
Arundel's  collection,  is  in  the  British  Museum. 

2  Henry  VIII.  (born   at  Greenwich,   England,  in   1491 ;  died  in   1547) 
ascended  the  English  throne  in  the  year  1509.     He  was  the  father  of  Queen 
Elizabeth. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  69 

head  decorated  with  rosemary,1  with  a  lemon  in  its  mouth,  which 
was  placed  with  great  formality  at  the  head  of  the  table.  The 
moment  this  pageant  made  its  appearance,  the  harper  struck  up 
a  flourish ;  at  the  conclusion  of  which  the  young  Oxonian,  on 
receiving  a  hint  from  the  Squire,  gave,  with  an  air  of  the  most 
comic  gravity,  an  old  carol,  the  first  verse  of  which  was  as  fol- 
lows : — 

"  Caput  apri  defero,2 
Reddens  laudes  Domino.8 

The  boar's  head  in  hand  bring  I, 

With  garlands  gay  and  rosemary. 

I  pray  you  all  synge  merily 
Qui  estis  in  convivio."* 

Though  prepared  to  witness  many  of  these  little  eccentricities, 
from  being  apprised  of  the  peculiar  hobby  of  mine  host,  yet,  I 
confess,  the  parade  with  which  so  odd  a  dish  was  introduced 
somewhat  perplexed  me,  until  I  gathered  from  the  conversation 
of  the  Squire  and  the  parson  that  it  was  meant  to  represent  the 
bringing-in  of  the  boar's  head,  —  a  dish  formerly  served  up  with 
much  ceremony,  and  the  sound  of  minstrelsy  and  song,  at  great 
tables  on  Christmas  Day.  "  I  like  the  old  custom,"  said  the 
Squire,  "  not  merely  because  it  is  stately  and  pleasing  in  itself,  but 
because  it  was  observed  at  the  college  at  Oxford5  at  which  I  was 
educated.  When  I  hear  the  old  song  chanted,  it  brings  to  mind 
the  time  when  I  was  young  and  gamesome ;  and  the  noble  old 
college  hall;  and  my  fellow-students  loitering  about  in  their 
black  gowns,  many  of  whom,  poor  lads,  are  now  in  their  graves." 

The  parson,  however,  whose  mind  was  not  haunted  by  such 

1  Old  English,  rosmarine ;  Latin,  rosmarinus  (ros,  "  dew;  "  and  martnus, 
"  of  the  sea").     So  called  because  it  flourishes  best  in  places  near  the  sea. 
It  is  very  fragrant,  and  symbolic  of  remembrance.     Compare  Hamlet  (act  iv. 
sc.  5):   "There's  rosemary,  that's  for  remembrance." 

2  "  I  bring  the  boar's  head." 

3  "  Returning  praises  to  the  Lord." 
*  "  As  many  as  are  at  the  banquet." 

5  The  famous  university  situated  in  the  county  of  Oxfordshire. 


70  IRVING. 

associations,  and  who  was  always  more  taken  up  with  the  text 
than  the  sentiment,  objected  to  the  Oxonian's  version  of  the 
carol,  which  he  affirmed  was  different  from  that  sung  at  college. 
He  went  on,  with  the  dry  perseverance  of  a  commentator,  to 
give  the  college  reading,  accompanied  by  sundry  annotations, 
addressing  himself  at  first  to  the  company  at  large ;  but,  finding 
their  attention  gradually  diverted  to  other  talk  and  other  objects, 
he  lowered  his  tone  as  his  number  of  auditors  diminished,  until 
he  concluded  his  remarks  in  an  under-voice  to  a  fat-headed  old 
gentleman  next  him,  who  was  silently  engaged  in  the  discussion 
of  a  huge  plateful  of  turkey.1 

The  table  was  literally  loaded  with  good  cheer,  and  presented 
an  epitome  of  country  abundance,  in  this  season  of  overflowing 
larders.  A  distinguished  post  was  allotted  to  "ancient  sirloin,"2 

1  IRVING'S  NOTE.  —  The  old  ceremony  of  serving  up  the  boar's  head  on 
Christmas  Day  is  still  observed  in  the  hall  of  Queen's  College,  Oxford.     I 
was  favored  by  the  parson  with  a  copy  of  the  carol  as  now  sung ;  and  as  it 
may  be  acceptable  to  such  of  my  readers  as  are  curious  in  these  grave  and 
learned  matters,  I  give  it  entire :  — 

"  The  boar's  head  in  hand  bear  I, 
Bedeck'd  with  bays  and  rosemary ; 
And  I  pray  you,  my  masters,  be  merry, 
Quot  estis  in  convivio. 
Caput  apri  defero, 
Reddens  laudes  Domino. 

41  The  boar's  head,  as  I  understand, 
Is  the  rarest  dish  in  all  this  land, 
Which  thus  bedeck'd  with  a  gay  garland 
Let  us  servire  cantico. 
Caput  apri  defero, 
Reddens  laudes  Domino. 

"  Our  steward  hath  provided  this 
In  honour  of  the  King  of  Bliss, 
Which  on  this  day  to  be  served  is 
In  Reginensi  Atrio. 
Caput  apri  defero, 
Reddens  laudes  Domino." 

2  James  I.,  on  his  return  from  a  hunting  excursion,  so  much  enjoyed 
his  dinner,  consisting  of  a  loin  of  roast  beef,  that  he  laid  his  sword  across 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  71 

as  mine  host  termed  it ;  being,  as  he  added,  "  the  standard  of  old 
English  hospitality,  and  a  joint  of  goodly  presence,  and  full  of 
expectation."  There  were  several  dishes  quaintly  decorated,  and 
which  had  evidently  something  traditional  in  their  embellish- 
ments, but  about  which,  as  I  did  not  like  to  appear  over-curious, 
I  asked  no  questions. 

I  could  not,  however,  but  notice  a  pie,  magnificently  decorated 
with  peacocks'  feathers,  in  imitation  of  the  tail  of  that  bird, 
which  overshadowed  a  considerable  tract  of  the  table.  This, 
the  Squire  confessed  with  some  little  hesitation,  was  a  pheasant 
pie,  though  a  peacock  pie  was  certainly  the  most  authentical ;  but 
there  had  been  such  a  mortality  among  the  peacocks  this  season, 
that  he  could  not  prevail  upon  himself  to  have  one  killed.1 

It  would  be  tedious,  perhaps,  to  my  wiser  readers,  who  may 
not  have  that  foolish  fondness  for  odd  and  obsolete  things  to 
which  I  am  a  little  given,  were  I  to  mention  the  other  makeshifts 
of  this  worthy  old  humorist,  by  which  he  was  endeavoring  to 
follow  up,  though  at  humble  distance,  the  quaint  customs  of  an- 
tiquity. I  was  pleased,  however,  to  see  the  respect  shown  to  his 
whims  by  his  children  and  relatives ;  who,  indeed,  entered  readily 

it,  and  dubbed  it  "  Sir  Loin."  Etymologically,  however,  the  word  is  from 
the  French  surlonge,  "  a  sirloin:  "  sur  (Latin,  super),  "  over;  "  and  longe, 
"loin." 

1  IRVING'S  NOTE.  —  The  peacock  was  anciently  in  great  demand  for  stately 
entertainments.  Sometimes  it  was  made  into  a  pie,  at  one  end  of  which  the 
head  appeared  above  the  crust  in  all  its  plumage,  with  the  beak  richly  gilt :  at 
the  other  end  the  tail  was  displayed.  Such  pies  were  served  up  at  the  solemn 
banquets  of  chivalry,  when  knights-errant  pledged  themselves  to  undertake 
any  perilous  enterprise,  w*hence  came  the  ancient  oath,  used  by  Justice  Shal- 
low, "  by  cock  and  pie."  The  peacock  was  also  an  important  dish  for  the 
Christmas  feast ;  and  Massinger,  in  his  City  Madam,  gives  some  idea  of  the 
extravagance  with  which  this,  as  well  as  other  dishes,  was  prepared  for  the 
gorgeous  revels  of  the  olden  times  :  — 

"  Men  may  talk  of  Country  Christmasses, 
Their  thirty  pound  butter'd  eggs,  their  pies  of  carps'  tongues : 
Their  pheasants  drench'd  with  ambergris ;   the  carcases  of  three  fat  wethers 
bruised  for  gravy  to  make  sauce  for  a  single  peacock  I " 


72  IRVING. 

into  the  full  spirit  of  them,  and  seemed  all  well  versed  in  their 
parts,  having  doubtless  been  present  at  many  a  rehearsal.  I 
was  amused,  too,  at  the  air  of  profound  gravity  with  which  the 
butler  and  other  servants  executed  the  duties  assigned  them, 
however  eccentric.  They  had  an  old-fashioned  look,  —  having, 
for  the  most  part,  been  brought  up  in  the  household,  and  grown 
.,  into  keeping  with  the  antiquated  mansion,  and  the  humors  of  its 
lord,  —  and  most  probably  looked  upon  all  his  whimsical  regula- 
tions as  the  established  laws  of  honorable  housekeeping. 

When  the  cloth  was  removed,  the  butler  brought  in  a  huge 
silver  vessel  of  rare  and  curious  workmanship,  which  he  placed 
before  the  Squire.  Its  appearance  was  hailed  with  acclamation, 
being  the  wassail  bowl,  so  renowned  in  Christmas  festivity.  The 
contents  had  been  prepared  by  the  Squire  himself ;  for  it  was  a 
beverage  in  the  skillful  mixture  of  which  he  particularly  prided 
himself,  alleging  that  it  was  too  abstruse  and  complex  for  the 
comprehension  of  an  ordinary  servant.  It  was  a  potation,  in- 
deed, that  might  well  make  the  heart  of  a  toper  leap  within  him, 
being  composed  of  the  richest  and  raciest  wines,  highly  spiced 
and  sweetened,  with  roasted  apples  bobbing  about  the  surface.1 

The  old  gentleman's  whole  countenance  beamed  with  a  serene 
look  of  indwelling  delight  as  he  stirred  this  mighty  bowl.  Hav- 
ing raised  it  to  his  lips  with  a  hearty  wish  of  a  merry  Christmas 
to  all  present,  he  sent  it  brimming  round  the  board,  for  every  one 
to  follow  his  example,  according  to  the  primitive  style,  pronoun- 

l  IRVING'S  NOTE.  —  The  wassail  bowl  was  sometimes  composed  of  ale 
instead  of  wine,  with  nutmeg,  sugar,  toast,  ginger,  and  roasted  crabs.  In 
this  way  the  nut-brown  beverage  is  still  prepared*  in  some  old  families,  and 
round  the  hearth  of  substantial  farmers  at  Christmas.  It  is  also  called 
"  lamb's  wool,"  and  it  is  celebrated  by  Herrick  in  his  Twelfth  Night:— 

"  Next  crowne  the  bowle  full 

With  gentle  Lamb's  Wool, 
Add  sugar,  nutmeg,  and  ginger, 

With  store  of  ale  too ; 

And  thus  ye  must  doe 
To  make  the  Wassaile  a  swinger." 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK.  73 

cing  it  "  the  ancient  fountain  of  good  feeling,  where  all  hearts  met 
together."1 

There  was  much  laughing  and  i  rallying  as  the  honest  emblem 
of  Christmas  joviality  circulated,  and  was  kissed  rather  coyly  by 
the  ladies ;  but  when  it  reached  Master  Simon,  he  raised  it  in  both 
hands,  and,  with  the  air  of  a  boon  companion,  struck  up  an  old 
wassail  chanson  :  2  — 

"  The  brown  bowle, 
The  merry  brown  bowle, 
As  it  goes  round  about-a, 
Fill 
Still, 

Let  the  world  say  what  it  will, 
And  drink  your  fill  all  out-a, 

"The  deep  canne, 
The  merry  deep  canne, 
As  thou  dost  freely  quaff -a, 
Sing 
Fling, 

Be  as  merry  as  a  king, 
And  sound  a  lusty  laugh-a."  3 

Much  of  the  conversation  during  dinner  turned  upon  family 
topics,  to  which  I  was  a  stranger.  There  was,  however,  a  great 
deal  of  rallying  of  Master  Simon  about  some  gay  widow,  with 
whom  he  was  accused  of  having  a  flirtation.  This  attack  was 
commenced  by  the  ladies ;  but  it  was  continued  throughout  the 
dinner  by  the  fat-headed  old  gentleman  next  the  parson,  with  the 
persevering  assiduity  of  a  slowhound,4  being  one  of  those  long- 
winded  jokers,  who,  though  rather  dull  at  starting  game,  are  un- 
rivaled for  their  talents  in  hunting  it  down.  At  every  pause 
in  the  general  conversation,  he  renewed  his  bantering  in  pretty 

1  "  The  custom  of  drinking  out  of  the  same  cup  gave  place  to  each  having 
his  cup.     When  the  steward  came  to  the  doore  with  the  Wassel,  he  was  to 
cry  three  times,  Wassel,  Wassel,  Wassel,  and  then  the  chappell  (chaplain)  wa? 
to  answer  with  a  song." — Arcfuzologia. 

2  Song.  3  From  Poor  Robin's  Almanack.  4  Bloodhound. 


74  IRVING. 

much  the  same  terms,  winking  hard  at  me  with  both  eyes  when- 
ever he  gave  Master  Simon  what  he  considered  a  home  thrust. 
The  latter,  indeed,  seemed  fond  of  being  teased  on  the  subject, 
as  old  bachelors  are  apt  to  be ;  and  he  took  occasion  to  inform 
me,  in  an  undertone,  that  the  lady  in  question  was  a  prodigiously 
fine  woman,  and  drove  her  own  curricle. 

The  dinner-time  passed  away  in  this  flow  of  innocent  hilarity, 
and,  though  the  old  hall  may  have  resounded  in  its  time  with 
many  a  scene  of  broader  rout  and  revel,  yet  I  doubt  whether  it 
ever  witnessed  more  honest  and  genuine  enjoyment.  How  easy 
it  is  for  one  benevolent  being  to  diffuse  pleasure  around  him ; 
and  how  truly  is  a  kind  heart  a  fountain  of  gladness,  making 
everything  in  its  vicinity  to  freshen  into  smiles!  The  joyous  dis- 
position of  the  worthy  Squire  was  perfectly  contagious.  He  was 
happy  himself,  and  disposed  to  make  all  the  world  happy ;  and 
the  little  eccentricities  of  his  humor  did  but  season,  in  a  manner, 
the  sweetness  of  his  philanthropy. 

After  the  dinner-table  was  removed,  the  hall  was  given  up  to 
the  younger  members  of  the  family,  who,  prompted  to  all  kind 
of  noisy  mirth  by  the  Oxonian  and  Master  Simon,  made  its  old 
walls  ring  with  their  merriment,  as  they  played  at  romping  games. 
I  delight  in  witnessing  the  gambols  of  children,  and  particularly 
at  this  happy  holiday  season,  and  could  not  help  stealing  out  of 
the  drawing-room  on  hearing  one  of  their  peals  of  laughter.  I 
found  them  at  the  game  of  blind-man's-buff.  Master  Simon, 
who  was  the  leader  of  their  revels,  and  seemed  on  all  occasions 
to  fulfill  the  office  of  that  ancient  potentate,  the  Lord  of  Misrule,1 
was  blinded  in  the  midst  of  the  hall.  The  little  beings  were  as 
busy  about  him  as  the  mock  fairies  about  Falstaff,2  pinching 

1  "  At  Christmasse  there  was  in  the  Kinges  house,  wheresoever  hee  was 
lodged,  a  lorde  of  misrule,  or  mayster  of  merie  disportes,  and  the  like  had  ye 
in  the  house  of  every  nobleman  of  honor,  or  good  worshippe,  were  he  spirit- 
uall  or  temporall." —  Stew. 

2  Sir  John  Falstaff,  one  of  Shakespeare's  characters  in  The  Merry  Wives 
of  Windsor  and  in  the  two  parts  of  Henry  IV. 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK.  75 

him,  plucking  at  the  skirts  of  his  coat,  and  tickling  him  with 
straws.  One  fine  blue-eyed  girl  of  about  thirteen,  with  her  flaxen 
hair  all  in  beautiful  confusion,  her  frolic  face  in  a  glow,  her  frock 
half  torn  off  her  shoulders,  a  complete  picture  of  a  romp,  was 
the  chief  tormentor;  and  from  the  slyness  with  which  Master 
Simon  avoided  the  smaller  game,  and  hemmed  this  wild  little 
nymph  in  corners,  and  obliged  her  to  jump,  shrieking,  over  chairs, 
I  suspected  the  rogue  of  being  not  a  whit  more  blinded  than  was 
convenient. 

When  I  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  I  found  the  company 
seated  round  the  fire,  listening  to  the  parson,  who  was  deeply 
ensconced  in  a  high-backed,  oaken  chair,  the  work  of  some  cun- 
ning artificer  of  yore,  which  had  been  brought  from  the  library 
for  his  particular  accommodation.  From  this  venerable  piece  of 
furniture,  with  which  his  shadowy  figure  and  dark,  weazen  face 
so  admirably  accorded,  he  was  dealing  forth  strange  accounts  of 
the  popular  superstitions  and  legends  of  the  surrounding  country, 
with  which  he  had  become  acquainted  in  the  course  of  his  anti- 
quarian researches.  I  am  half  inclined  to  think  that  the  old  gen- 
tleman was  himself  somewhat  tinctured  with  superstition,  as  men 
are  very  apt  to  be  who  live  a  recluse  and  studious  life  in  a  se- 
questered part  of  the  country,  and  pore  over  black-letter  tracts, 
so  often  filled  with  the  marvelous  and  supernatural.  He  gave 
us  several  anecdotes  of  the  fancies  of  the  neighboring  peasantry 
concerning  the  effigy  of  the  crusader,  which  lay  on  the  tomb  by 
the  church  altar.  As  it  was  the  only  monument  of  the  kind  in 
that  part  of  the  country,  it  had  always  been  regarded  with  feel- 
ings of  superstition  by  the  good  wives  of  the  village.  It  was 
said  to  get  up  from  the  tomb  and  walk  the  rounds  of  the  church- 
yard in  stormy  nights,  particularly  when  it  thundered ;  and  one 
old  woman,  whose  cottage  bordered  on  the  churchyard,  had  seen 
it  through  the  windows  of  the  church,  when  the  moon  shone, 
slowly  pacing  up  and  down  the  aisles.  It  was  the  belief  that 
some  wrong  had  been  left  unredressed  by  the  deceased,  or  some 
treasure  hidden,  which  kept  the  spirit  in  a  state  of  trouble  and 


76  IRVING. 

restlessness.  Some  talked  of  gold  and  jewels  buried  in  the  tomb, 
over  which  the  specter  kept  watch ;  and  there  was  a  story  cur- 
rent of  a  sexton  in  old  times,  who  endeavored  to  break  his  way 
to  the  coffin  at  night,  but,  just  as  he  reached  it,  received  a  violent 
blow  from  the  marble  hand  of  the  effigy,  which  stretched  him 
senseless  on  the  pavement.  These  tales  were  often  laughed  at 
by  some  of  the  sturdier  among  the  rustics,  yet,  when  night  came 
on,  there  were  many  of  the  stoutest  unbelievers  that  were  shy  of 
venturing  alone  in  the  footpath  that  led  across  the  churchyard. 

From  these  and  other  anecdotes  that  followed,  the  crusader 
appeared  to  be  the  favorite  hero  of  ghost  stories  throughout  the 
vicinity.  His  picture,  which  hung  up  in  the  hall,  was  thought  by 
the  servants  to  have  something  supernatural  about  it ;  for  they 
remarked,  that,  in  whatever  part  of  the  hall  you  went,  the  eyes 
of  the  warrior  were  still  fixed  on  you.  The  old  porter's  wife, 
too,  at  the  lodge,  who  had  been  born  and  brought  up  in  the 
family,  and  was  a  great  gossip  among  the  maid-servants,  affirmed 
that  in  her  young  days  she  had  often  heard  say,  that  on  midsum- 
mer eve,  when  it  was  well  known  all  kinds  of  ghosts,  goblins,  and 
fairies  become  visible  and  walk  abroad,  the  crusader  used  to 
mount  his  horse,  come  down  from  his  picture,  ride  about  the 
house,  down  the  avenue,  and  so  to  the  church  to  visit  the  tomb, 
on  which  occasion  the  church  door  most  civilly  swung  open  of 
itself ;  not  that  he  needed  it,  for  he  rode  through  closed  gates 
and  even  stone  walls,  and  had  been  seen  by  one  of  the  •  dairy- 
maids to  pass  between  two  bars  of  the  great  park  gate,  making 
himself  as  thin  as  a  sheet  of  paper. 

All  these  superstitions  I  found  had  been  very  much  counte- 
nanced by  the  Squire,  who,  though  not  superstitious  himself,  was 
very  fond  of  seeing  others  so.  He  listened  to  every  goblin  tale 
of  the  neighboring  gossips  with  infinite  gravity,  and  held  the  por- 
ter's wife  in  high  favor  on  account  of  her  talent  for  the  marvelous. 
He  was  himself  a  great  reader  of  old  legends  and  romances, 
and  often  lamented  that  he  could  not  believe  in  them  ;  for  a  super- 
stitious person,  he  thought,  must  live  in  a  kind  of  fairyland. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  77 

Whilst  we  were  all  attention  to  the  parson's  stories,  our  ears 
were  suddenly  assailed  by  a  burst  of  heterogeneous  sounds  from 
the  hall,  in  which  were  mingled  something  like  the  clang  of  rude 
minstrelsy,  with  the  uproar  of  many  small  voices  and  girlish 
laughter.  The  door  suddenly  flew  open,  and  a  train  came  troop- 
ing into  the  room,  that  might  almost  have  been  mistaken  for,  the 
breaking-up  of  the  court  of  Fairy.  That  indefatigable  spirit 
Master  Simon,  in  the  faithful  discharge  of  his  duties  as  Lord  of 
Misrule,  had  conceived  the  idea  of  a  Christmas  mummery  or 
masking ;  and  having  called  in  to  his  assistance  the  Oxonian  and 
the  young  officer,  who  were  equally  ripe  for  anything  that  should 
occasion  romping  and  merriment,  they  had  carried  it  into  instant 
effect.  The  old  housekeeper  had  been  consulted ;  the  antique 
clothes-presses  and  wardrobes  rummaged,  and  made  to  yield  up 
the  relics  of  finery  that  had  not  seen  the  light  for  several  genera- 
tions. The  younger  part  of  the  company  had  been  privately  con- 
vened from  parlor  and  hall,  and  the  whole  had  been  bedizened  out 
into  a  burlesque  imitation  of  an  antique  mask.1 

Master  Simon  led  the  van  as  Ancient  Christmas,  quaintly  ap- 
pareled in  a  ruff,  a  short  cloak  which  had  very  much  the  aspect  of 
one  of  the  old  housekeeper's  petticoats,  and  a  hat  that  might  have 
served  for  a  village  steeple,  and  must  indubitably  have  figured 
in  the  days  of  the  Covenanters.2  From  under  this,  his  nose 
curved  boldly  forth,  flushed  with  a  frost-bitten  bloom  that  seemed 
the  very  trophy  of  a  December  blast.  He  was  accompanied  by 
the  blue-eyed  romp,  dished  up  as  Dame  Mince  Pie,  in  the  ven- 
erable magnificence  of  faded  brocade,  long  stomacher,  peaked 

1  IRVING'S  NOTE.  —  Maskings,  or  mummeries,  were  favorite  sports  at 
Christmas  in  old  times ;  and  the  wardrobes  at  halls  and  manor-houses  were 
often  laid  under  contribution  to  furnish  dresses  and  fantastic  disguisings. 
I  strongly  suspect  Master  Simon  to  have  taken  the  idea  of  his  from  Ben  Jon- 
son's  Masque  of  Christmas. 

2  In  Scottish  history,  the  name  applied  to  a  party  embracing  the  great  ma- 
jority of  the  people,  who,  during  the  seventeenth  century,  bound  themselves 
to  establish  and  maintain  the  Presbyterian  doctrine  as  the  sole  religion  of 
the  country. 


78  IRVING. 

hat,  and  high-heeled  shoes.  The  young  officer  appeared  as 
Robin  Hood,1  in  a  sporting  dress  of  Kendal  green2  and  a  for- 
aging cap  with  a  gold  tassel. 

The  costume,  to  be  sure,  did  not  bear  testimony  to  deep  re- 
search, and  there  was  an  evident  eye  to  the  picturesque,  natural 
to  a  young  gallant  in  presence  of  his  mistress.  The  fair  Julia 
hung  on  his  arm  in  a  pretty  rustic  dress,  as  Maid  Marian.3  The 
rest  of  the  train  had  been  metamorphosed  in  various  ways,  —  the 
girls  trussed  up  in  the  finery  of  the  ancient  belles  of  the  Brace- 
bridge  line ;  and  the  striplings  bewhiskered  with  burnt  cork,  and 
gravely  clad  in  broad  skirts,  hanging  sleeves,  and  full-bottomed 
wigs,  to  represent  the  characters  of  Roast  Beef,  Plum  Pudding, 
and  other  worthies  celebrated  in  ancient  maskings.  The  whole 
was  under  the  control  of  the  Oxonian,  in  the  appropriate  charac- 
ter of  Misrule ;  and  I  observed  that  he  exercised  rather  a  mis- 
chievous sway  with  his  wand  over  the  smaller  personages  of  the 
pageant. 

The  irruption  of  this  motley  crew,  with  beat  of  drum,  according 
to  ancient  custom,  was  the  consummation  of  uproar  and  mer- 
riment. Master  Simon  covered  himself  with  glory  by  the  state- 
liness  with  which,  as  Ancient  Christmas,  he  walked  a  minuet4 
with  the  peerless  though  giggling  Dame  Mince  Pie.  It  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  dance  from  all  the  characters,  which,  from  its  medley 
of  costumes,  seemed  as  though  the  old  family  portraits  had  skipped 
down  from  their  frames  to  join  in  the  sport.  Different  centuries 

1  The  famous  legendary  outlaw  (born  at  Locksley,  in  Notts,  in  the  reign 
of  Henry  II.,  1160).     His  real  name  was  Fitzooth,  and  it  is  commonly  said 
he  was  the  Earl  of  Huntingdon. 

2  Woolen  cloth  of  coarse  texture,  called  Kendal  from  the  town  of  that 
name  in  Westmoreland,  England,  where  it  was  first  made. 

3  A  name  assumed  by  Matilda,  daughter  of  Robert  Lord  Fitzwalter,  while 
Robin  Hood  (her  lover)  remained  in  a  state  of  outlawry. 

4  A  slow,  very  graceful  dance,  performed  in  £  or  -|  time ;  originated,  it  is 
said,  in  Poitou,  France,  about  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century.     Its 
name  is  from  the  French  menuet  (Latin,  minutus,  "  small"),  the  steps  taken 
in  the  dance  being  small. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  79 

were  figuring  at  cross  hands  and  right  and  left :  the  dark  ages 
were  cutting  pirouettes1  and  rigadoons;2  and  the  days  of  Queen 
Bess*  jigging  merrily  down  the  middle,  through  a  line  of  succeed- 
ing generations. 

The  worthy  Squire  contemplated  these  fantastic  sports,  and 
this  resurrection  of  his  old  wardrobe,  with  the  simple  relish  of 
childish  delight.  He  stood  chuckling,  and  rubbing  his  hands, 
and  scarcely  hearing  a  word  the  parson  said,  notwithstanding 
that  the  latter  was  discoursing  most  authentically  on  the  ancient 
and  stately  dance  of  the  pavon,  or  peacock,  from  which  he  con- 
ceived the  minuet  to  be  derived.3  For  my  part,  I  was  in  a  con- 
tinual excitement  from  the  varied  scenes  of  whim  and  innocent 
gayety  passing  before  me.  It  was  inspiring  to  see  wild-eyed 
Frolic  and  warm-hearted  Hospitality  breaking  out  from  among 
the  chills  and  glooms  of  winter,  and  Old  Age  throwing  off  his 
apathy,  and  catching  once  more  the  freshness  of  youthful  enjoy- 
ment. I  felt  also  an  interest  in  the  scene,  from  the  consideration 
that  these  fleeting  customs  were  posting  fast  into  oblivion,  and 
that  this  was  perhaps  the  only  family  in  England  in  which  the 
whole  of  them  were  still  punctiliously  observed.  There  was  a 
quaintness,  too,  mingled  with  all  this  revelry,  that  gave  it  a  pe- 
culiar zest :  it  was  suited  to  the  time  and  place ;  and,  as  the  old 
manor-house  almost  reeled  with  mirth  and  wassail,  it  seemed 
echoing  back  the  joviality  of  long-departed  years. 

But  enough  of  Christmas  and  its  gambols :  it  is  time  for  me 
to  pause  in  this  garrulity.  Methinks  I  hear  the  question  asked 
by  my  graver  readers,  "  To  what  purpose  is  all  this?  How  is  the 

1  Whirling  on  the  tip  of  one  foot. 

2  French,  rigodon.    A  dance  said  to  have  come  from  Provence,  France. 
It  is  gay  and  brisk  in  character. 

3  Sir  John  Hawkins,  speaking  of  the  dance  called  pavon,  iram-pavo  ("  a 
peacock"),  says,  "  It  is  a  grave  and  majestic  dance;  the  method  of  dancing 
it  anciently  was  by  gentlemen  dressed  with  caps  and  swords,  by  those  of  the 
long  robe  in  their  gowns,  by  the  peers  in  their  mantles,  and  by  the  ladies  in 
gowns  with  long  trains,  the  motion  whereof,  in  dancing,  resembled  that  of  a 
peacock. "  —  History  of  Music. 


8o  IRVING. 

world  to  be  made  wiser  by  this  talk?  "  Alas!  is  there  not  wis- 
dom enough  extant  for  the  instruction  of  the  world?  and  if  not, 
are  there  not  thousands  of  abler  pens  laboring  for  its  improve- 
ment? It  is  so  much  pleasanter  to  please  than  to  instruct,  —  to 
play  the  companion  rather  than  the  preceptor. 

What,  after  all,  is  the  mite  of  wisdom  that  I  could  throw  into 
the  mass  of  knowledge,  or  how  am  I  sure  that  my  sagest  deduc- 
tions may  be  safe  guides  for  the  opinions  of  others?  But  in 
writing  to  amuse,  if  I  fail,  the  only  evil  is  in  my  own  disappoint- 
ment. If,  however,  I  can  by  any  lucky  chance,  in  these  days  of 
evil,  rub  out  one  wrinkle  from  the  brow  of  care,  or  beguile  the 
heavy  heart  of  one  moment  of  sorrow ;  if  I  can  now  and  then 
penetrate  through  the  gathering  film  of  misanthropy,  prompt  a 
benevolent  view  of  human  nature,  and  make  my  reader  more  in 
good  humor  with  his  fellow-beings  and  himself,  —  surely,  surely, 
I  shall  not  then  have  written  entirely  in  vain. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.1 

ON  one  of  those  sober  and  rather  melancholy  days  in  the 
latter  part  of  autumn,  when  the  shadows  of  morning  and 
evening  almost  mingle  together,  and  throw  a  gloom  over  the  de- 
cline of  the  year,  I  passed  several  hours  in  rambling  about  West- 
minster Abbey.  There  was  something  congenial  to  the  season 
in  the  mournful  magnificence  of  the  old  pile ;  and,  as  I  passed 
its  threshold,  it  seemed  like  stepping  back  into  the  regions  of 
antiquity,  and  losing  myself  among  the  shades  of  former  ages. 

1  The  coronation  church  of  the  sovereigns  of  England  from  the  time  of 
Harold  (1066).  It  occupies  the  site  of  a  chapel  built  by  Siebert  in  honor  of 
St.  Peter,  on  a  slightly  elevated  spot  rising  from  the  marshy  ground  border- 
ing the  Thames.  The  Abbey  was  fifteen  years  in  building,  and  was  the  first 
cruciform  church  in  England.  It  contains  the  tombs  and  monuments  of 
many  of  the  sovereigns  of  Great  Britain,  and  the  memorials  of  England's 
greatest  men  in  all  walks  of  life. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  81 

I  entered  from  the  inner  court  of  Westminster  School,1  through 
a  long,  low,  vaulted  passage,  that  had  an  almost  subterranean 
look,  being  dimly  lighted  in  one  part  by  circular  perforations  in 
the  massive  walls.  Through  this  dark  avenue  I  had  a  distant 
view  of  the  cloisters,2  with  the  figure  of  an  old  verger3  in  his 
black  gown,  moving  along  their  shadowy  vaults,  and  seeming 
like  a  specter  from  one  of  the  neighboring  tombs.  The  approach 
to  the  Abbey  through  these  gloomy  monastic  remains  prepares 
the  mind  for  its  solemn  contemplation.  The  cloister  still  retains 
something  of  the  quiet  and  seclusion  of  former  days.  The  gray 
walls  are  discolored  by  damps,  and  crumbling  with  age ;  a  coat 
of  hoary  moss  has  gathered  over  the  inscriptions  of  the  mural 
monuments,  and  obscured  the  death's  heads  and  other  funeral 
emblems ;  the  sharp  touches  of  the  chisel  are  gone  from  the  rich 
tracery  of  the  arches;  the  roses  which  adorned  the  keystones 
have  lost  their  leafy  beauty;  everything  bears  marks  of  the 
gradual  dilapidations  of  time,  which  yet  has  something  touching 
and  pleasing  in  its  very  decay. 

The  sun  was  pouring  down  a  yellow  autumnal  ray  into  the 
square  of  the  cloisters,  beaming  upon  a  scanty  plot  of  grass  in 
the  center,  and  lighting  up  an  angle  of  the  vaulted  passage  with 
a  kind  of  dusty  splendor.  From  between  the  arcades  the  eye 
glanced  up  to  a  bit  of  blue  sky  or  a  passing  cloud,  and  beheld 
the  sun-gilt  pinnacles  of  the  Abbey  towering  into  the  azure 
heaven. 

As  I  paced  the  cloisters,  sometimes  contemplating  this  mingled 
picture  of  glory  and  decay,  and  sometimes  endeavoring  to  deci- 

1  This  school  was  in  existence  in  1540,  established  by  charter  of  Henry 
VIII.     Under  the  reign  of  Mary  the  whole  school  was  swept  away.     It  was 
restored  by  Elizabeth  in  1560,  who  gave  to  the  college  the  statutes  which  are 
more  or  less  observed  to  this  day. 

2  Old   French,    cloistre;  Latin,    claustrum.      That   which  shuts    off;    in 
monastic  buildings,   an  arched  passage,  usually  running  about  an  interior 
court,  and  used  as  a  place  of  recreation  for  monks. 

3  Old  French,  vergier;  Latin,  virga  ("a  rod").     A  church  officer  who 
bore  the  verge  or  staff  of  office  for  ecclesiastical  dignitaries. 

6 


82  IRVING. 

pher  the  inscriptions  on  the  tombstones,  which  formed  the  pave- 
ment beneath  my  feet,  my  eye  was  attracted  to  three  figures, 
rudely  carved  in  relief,  but  nearly  worn  away  by  the  footsteps  of 
many  generations.  They  were  the  effigies  of  three  of  the  early 
abbots.  The  epitaphs  were  entirely  effaced.  The  names  alone 
remained,  having,  no  doubt,  been  renewed  in  later  times,  —  Vita- 
lis1  (Abbas,  1082),  and  Gislebertus  Crispinus2  (Abbas,  1 114),  and 
Laurentius3  (Abbas,  1176).  I  remained  some  little  while,  mus- 
ing over  these  casual  relics  of  antiquity,  thus  left  like  wrecks 
upon  this  distant  shore  of  time,  telling  no  tale  but  that  such 
beings  had  been  and  had  perished ;  teaching  no  moral  but  the 
futility  of  that  pride  which  hopes  still  to  exact  homage  in  its 
ashes,  and  to  live  in  an  inscription.  A  little  longer,  and  even 
these  faint  records  will  be  obliterated,  and  the  monument  will 
cease  to  be  a  memorial.  Whilst  I  was  yet  looking  down  upon 
these  gravestones,  I  was  roused  by  the  sound  of  the  Abbey  clock, 
reverberating  from  buttress  to  buttress,  and  echoing  among  the 
cloisters.  It  is  almost  startling  to  hear  this  warning  of  departed 
time  sounding  among  the  tombs,  and  telling  the  lapse  of  the  hour, 
which,  like  a  billow,  has  rolled  us  onward  towards  the  grave. 

I  pursued  my  walk  to  an  arched  door  opening  to  the  in- 
terior of  the  Abbey.     On  entering  here,  the  magnitude  of  the 


1  Vitalis  was  a  Norman.      He  was  an  abbot  at  Bernay  in  Normandy,  and 
was  expressly  sent  for  by  the  King  (William  the  Conqueror)  to  govern  at 
Westminster.     He  had  the  character  of  a  wise  and  prudent  man.     He  died 
June  19,  1082,  and  was  interred  in  the  south  cloister. 

2  Gislebertus  Crispinus  (Gilbert  Crispin)  was  a  Norman  of  noble  rank. 
He  was  particularly  famous  as  a  sound  theologist  and  a  ready  disputant. 
After  a  long  life  of  piety  and  good  deeds,  he  died  Dec.  6,  1114,  and  was 
buried  at  the  feet  of  Vitalis,  his  predecessor. 

3  Laurentius  (or  Lawrence)  was  educated,  and  resided  for  many  years,  at 
St.  Albans.     He  was  chosen  for  Westminster  Abbey  about  the  year  1159, 
through  the  influence  of  Henry  II.,  who  thought  highly  of  him.     He  was  a 
man  of  talents.     He  was  appointed  by  the  King,  the  Pope,  and  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury,  to  decide  several  disputed  causes.     He  was  buried  in 
the  south  walk  of  the  cloister. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  83 

building  breaks  fully  upon  the  mind,  contrasted  with  the  vaults 
of  the  cloisters.  The  eye  gazes  with  wonder  at  clustered  col- 
umns of  gigantic  dimensions,  with  arches  springing  from  them  to 
such  an  amazing  height ;  and  man  wandering  about  their  bases, 
shrunk  into  insignificance  in  comparison  with  his  own  handiwork. 
The  spaciousness  and  gloom  of  this  vast  edifice  produce  a  pro- 
found and  mysterious  awe.  We  step  cautiously  and  softly  about, 
as  if  fearful  of  disturbing  the  hallowed  silence  of  the  tomb  ;  while 
every  footfall  whispers  along  the  walls,  and  chatters  among  the 
sepulchers,  making  us  more  sensible  of  the  quiet  we  have  inter- 
rupted. 

It  seems  as  if  the  awful  nature  of  the  place  presses  down  upon 
the  soul,  and  hushes  the  beholder  into  noiseless  reverence.  We 
feel  that  we  are  surrounded  by  the  congregated  bones  of  the 
great  men  of  past  times,  who  have  filled  history  with  their  deeds, 
and  the  earth  with  their  renown.  And  yet  it  almost  provokes  a 
smile  at  the  vanity  of  human  ambition,  to  see  how  they  are 
crowded  together  and  jostled  in  the  dust;  what  parsimony  is 
observed  in  doling  out  a  scanty  nook,  a  gloomy  corner,  a  little 
portion  of  earth,  to  those  whom,  when  alive,  kingdoms  could 
not  satisfy ;  and  how  many  shapes  and  forms  and  artifices  are 
devised  to  catch  the  casual  notice  of  the  passenger,  and  save  from 
forgetfulness  for  a  few  short  years  a  name  which  once  aspired  to 
occupy  ages  of  the  world's  thought  and  admiration. 

I  passed  some  time  in  Poet's  Corner,1  which  occupies  an  end 
of  one  of  the  transepts  or  cross  aisles  of  the  Abbey.  The  monu- 
ments are  generally  simple,  for  the  lives  of  literary  men  afford 
no  striking  themes  for  the  sculptor.  Shakespeare  2  and  Addison 3 
have  statues  erected,  to  their  memories ;  but  the  greater  part  have 

1  The  poet  Chaucer,  who  died  Oct.  25,  1400,  was  the  first  to  be  buried 
in  Poet's  Corner,  through  the  royal  favor  of  Henry  IV.  ;  but  no  monument 
was  placed  over  him  until  during  the  reign  of  Edward  VI.,  in  1551. 

2  The  remains  of  Shakespeare  (1564-1616)  were  never  moved  from  Strat- 
ford, but  a  monument  was  erected  in  the  Abbey  in  1 740. 

8  Addison  (1672-1719)  is  buried  in  the  chapel  of  Henry  VII.,  in  the  vault 


84  IRVING. 

busts,  medallions,  and  sometimes  mere  inscriptions.  Notwith- 
standing the  simplicity  of  these  memorials,  I  have  always  ob- 
served that  the  visitors  to  the  Abbey  remain  longest  about 
them.  A  kinder  and  fonder  feeling  takes  place  of  that  cold 
curiosity  or  vague  admiration  with  which  they  gaze  on  the  splen- 
did monuments  of  the  great  and  the  heroic.  They  linger  about 
these  as  about  the  tombs  of  friends  and  companions ;  for,  indeed, 
there  is  something  of  companionship  between  the  author  and  the 
reader.  Other  men  are  known  to  posterity  only  through*  the  me- 
dium of  history,  which  is  continually  growing  faint  and  obscure ; 
but  the  intercourse  between  the  author  and  his  fellowmen  is  ever 
new,  active,  and  immediate.  He  has  lived  for  them  more  than 
for  himself ;  he  has  sacrificed  surrounding  enjoyments,  and  shut 
himself  up  from  the  delights  of  social  life,  that  he  might  the  more 
intimately  commune  with  distant  minds  and  distant  ages.  Well 
may  the  world  cherish  his  renown ;  for  it  has  been  purchased, 
not  by  deeds  of  violence  and  blood,  but  by  the  diligent  dispen- 
sation of  pleasure.  Well  may  posterity  be  grateful  to  his  mem- 
ory ;  for  he  has  left  it  an  inheritance,  not  of  empty  names  and 
sounding  actions,  but  whole  treasures  of  wisdom,  bright  gems  of 
thought,  and  golden  veins  of  language. 

From  Poet's  Corner  I  continued  my  stroll  towards  that  part  of 
the  Abbey  which  contains  the  sepulchers  of  the  kings.  I  wan- 
dered among  what  once  were  chapels,  but  which  are  now  occu- 
pied by  the  tombs  and  monuments  of  the  great.  At  every  turn 
I  met  with  some  illustrious  name,  or  the  cognizance  of  some 
powerful  house  renowned  in  history.  As  the  eye  darts  into  these 
dusky  chambers  of  death,  it  catches  glimpses  of  quaint  effigies,  — 
some  kneeling  in  niches,  as  if  in  devotion  ;  others  stretched  upon 
the  tombs,  with  hands  piously  pressed  together ;  warriors  in  ar- 
mor, as  if  reposing  after  battle  ;  prelates  with  crosiers  and  miters ; 
and  nobles  in  robes  and  coronets,  lying,  as  it  were,  in  state.  In 


of  the  House  of  Albemarle.     A  monument  of  him  stands  in  the  Poet's  Cor- 
ner, and  was  erected  in  1808. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  85 

glancing  over  this  scene,  so  strangely  populous,  yet  where  every 
form  is  so  still  and  silent,  it  seems  almost  as  if  we  were  treading 
a  mansion  of  that  fabled  city,  where  every  being  had  been  sud- 
denly transmuted  into  stone. 

I  paused  to  contemplate  a  tomb  on  which  lay  the  effigy  of  a 
knight  in  complete  armor.  A  large  buckler  was  on  one  arm ; 
the  hands  were  pressed  together  in  supplication  upon  the  breast ; 
the  face  was  almost  covered  by  the  morion;  the  legs  were 
crossed,  in  token  of  the  warrior's  having  been  engaged  in  the  holy 
war.  It  was  the  tomb  of  a  crusader,  —  of  one  of  those  military 
enthusiasts  who  so  strangely  mingled  religion  and  romance,  and 
whose  exploits  form  the  connecting  link  between  fact  and  fiction, 
between  the  history  and  the  fairy  tale.  There  is  something  ex- 
tremely picturesque  in  the  tombs  of  these  adventurers,  decorated 
as  they  are  with  rude  armorial  bearings  and  Gothic  sculpture. 
They  comport  with  the  antiquated  chapels  in  which  they  are 
generally  found ;  and  in  considering  them,  the  imagination  is  apt 
to  kindle  with  the  legendary  associations,  the  romantic  fictions, 
the  chivalrous  pomp  and  pageantry,  which  poetry  has  spread 
over  the  wars  for  the  sepulcher  of  Christ.  They  are  the  relics  of 
times  utterly  gone  by,  of  beings  passed  from  recollection,  of  cus- 
toms and  manners  with  which  ours  have  no  affinity.  They  are 
like  objects  from  some  strange  and  distant  land,  of  which  we 
have  no  certain  knowledge,  and  about  which  all  our  conceptions 
are  vague  and  visionary.  There  is  something  extremely  solemn 
and  awful  in  those  effigies  on  Gothic  tombs,  extended  as  if  in  the 
sleep  of  death,  or  in  the  supplication  of  the  dying  hour.  They 
have  an  effect  infinitely  more  impressive  on  my  feelings  than 
the  fanciful  attitudes,  the  overwrought  conceits,  and  allegorical 
groups,  which  abound  on  modern  monuments.  I  have  been 
struck,  also,  with  the  superiority  of  many  of  the  old  sepulchral 
inscriptions.  There  was  a  noble  way,  in  former  times,  of  say- 
ing things  simply,  and  yet  saying  them  proudly ;  and  I  do  not 
know  an  epitaph  that  breathes  a  loftier  consciousness  of  family 
worth  and  honorable  lineage  than  one  which  affirms,  of  a  noble 


86  IRVING. 

house,  that  "  all  the  brothers  were  brave,  and  all  the  sisters  vir- 
tuous."1 

In  the  opposite  transept  to  Poet's  Corner  stands  a  monument 
which  is  among  the  most  renowned  achievements  of  modern  art, 
but  which  to  me  appears  horrible  rather  than  sublime.  It  is  the 
tomb  of  Mrs.  Nightingale,2  by  Roubiliac.3  The  bottom  of  the 
monument  is  represented  as  throwing  open  its  marble  doors,  and 
a  sheeted  skeleton  is  starting  forth.  The  shroud  is  falling  from 
his  fleshless  frame  as  he  launches  his  dart  at  his  victim.  She  is 
sinking  into  her  affrighted  husband's  arms,  who  strives,  with  vain 
and  frantic  effort,  to  avert  the  blow.  The  whole  is  executed  with 
terrible  truth  and  spirit :  we  almost  fancy  we  hear  the  gibbering 
yell  of  triumph  bursting  from  the  distended  jaws  of  the  specter. 
But  why  should  we  thus  seek  to  clothe  death  with  unnecessary 
terrors,  and  to  spread  horrors  round  the  tomb  of  those  we  love? 
The  grave  should  be  surrounded  by  everything  that  might  inspire 
tenderness  and  veneration  for  the  dead,  or  that  might  win  the 
living  to  virtue.  It  is  the  place,  not  of  disgust  and  dismay,  but 
of  sorrow  and  meditation. 

While  wandering  about  these  gloomy  vaults  and  silent  aisles, 
studying  the  records  of  the  dead,  the  sound  of  busy  existence 
from  without  occasionally  reaches  the  ear,  —  the  rumbling  of  the 
passing  equipage,  the  murmur  of  the  multitude,  or  perhaps  the 

1  A  portion  of  the  inscription  upon  the  tomb  of  "  the  loyal  "  Duke  of  New- 
castle and  the  Duchess.     This  nobleman  was  one  of  the  firmest  supporters 
of  Charles  I. 

2  In  memory  of  Joseph  Gascoigne  Nightingale,  Esq.,  of  Minehead,  Dev- 
onshire, who  died  in  1752 ;  and  the  Lady  Elizabeth,  his  wife,  who  died  soon 
after  marriage.     A  tradition  of  the  Abbey  records  that  a  robber,  coming  into 
the  Abbey  by  moonlight,  was  so  startled  by  the  figure  as  to  have  fled  in  dis- 
may, and  left  his  crowbar  on  the  pavement. 

3  Roubiliac  (1695-1762)  was  an  able  French  sculptor,  born  at  Lyons.     He 
settled  in  London  in  1720,  and  soon  became  the  most  popular  sculptor  of 
the  time  in  England.      His  chief  works  in  the  Abbey  are  the  monuments  of 
Handel,  Admiral  Warren,  Marshal  Wade,  Mrs.  Nightingale,  and  the  Duke 
of  Argyll. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  87 

light  laugh  of  pleasure.  The  contrast  is  striking  with  the  death- 
like repose  around ;  and  it  has  a  strange  effect  upon  the  feelings, 
thus  to  hear  the  surges  of  active  life  hurrying  along,  and  beating 
against  the  very  walls  of  the  sepulcher. 

I  continued  in  this  way  to  move  from  tomb  to  tomb,  and  from 
chapel  to  chapel.  The  day  was  gradually  wearing  away ;  the 
distant  tread  of  loiterers  about  the  Abbey  grew  less  and  less  fre- 
quent ;  the  sweet- tongued  bell  was  summoning  to  evening  prayer ; 
and  I  saw  at  a  distance  the  choristers,  in  their  white  surplices, 
crossing  the  aisle  and  entering  the  choir.  I  stood  before  the  en- 
trance to  Henry  VII. 's  Chapel.1  A  flight  of  steps  leads  up  to  it, 
through  a  deep  and  gloomy  but  magnificent  arch.  Great  gates 
of  brass,  richly  and  delicately  wrought,  turn  heavily  upon  their 
hinges,  as  if  proudly  reluctant  to  admit  the  feet  of  common  mor- 
tals into  this  most  gorgeous  of  sepulchers. 

On  entering,  the  eye  is  astonished  by  the  pomp  of  architect- 
ure, and  the  elaborate  beauty  of  sculptured  detail.  The  very 
walls  are  wrought  into  universal  ornament,  incrusted  with  tracery, 
and  scooped  into  niches  crowded  with  the  statues  of  saints  and 
martyrs.  Stone  seems,  by  the  cunning  labor  of  the  chisel,  to 
have  been  robbed  of  its  weight  and  density,  suspended  aloft  as 
if  by  magic,  and  the  fretted  roof  achieved  with  the  wonderful 
minuteness  and  airy  security  of  a  cobweb. 

Along  the  sides  of  the  chapel  are  the  lofty  stalls  of  the  Knights 
of  the  Bath 2  richly  carved  of  oak,  though  with  the  grotesque  dec- 

1  Designed  by  Henry  VII.  as  a  burying  place  for  himself  and  his  success- 
ors ;  and  he  expressly  enjoined  in  his  will  that  none  but  those  of  royal  blood 
should  be  buried  there.     The  first  to  be  buried  there  was  his  wife,  Elizabeth 
of  York,  who  died  in  1503.     Six  years  later  he  died,  and  was  buried  by  the 
side  of  his  queen,  not  in  the  raised  tomb,  but  in  the  vault  beneath.     His  effigy 
was  completed  within  twenty  years  after  his  death,  by  Torrigiano,  a  Floren- 
tine sculptor. 

2  This  Order  of  the  Knights  of  the  Bath  originated,  it  is  said,  in  1399,  at 
Henry  IV. 's  coronation.     In  the  earlier  coronations  it  had  been  the  practice 
of  the  sovereigns  to  create  a  number  of  knights  before  they  started  on  their 
procession  from  the  Tower.     These  knights,  being  made  in  time  of  peace, 


88  IRVING. 

orations  of  Gothic  architecture.  On  the  pinnacles  of  the  stalls 
are  affixed  the  helmets  and  crests  of  the  knights,  with  their  scarfs 
and  swords ;  and  above  them  are  suspended  their  banners,  em- 
blazoned with  armorial  bearings,  and  contrasting  the  splendor  of 
gold  and  purple  and  crimson  with  the  cold,  gray  fretwork  of  the 
roof.  In  the  midst  of  this  grand  mausoleum  stands  the  sepulcher 
of  its  founder,1 — his  effigy,  with  that  of  his  queen,  extended  on 
a  sumptuous  tomb,  and  the  whole  surrounded  by  a  superbly 
wrought  brazen  railing. 

There  is  a  sad  dreariness  in  this  magnificence ;  this  strange 
mixture  of  tombs  and  trophies,  these  emblems  of  living  and  aspir- 
ing ambition,  close  beside  mementos  which  show  the  dust  and 
oblivion  in  which  all  must  sooner  or  later  terminate.  Nothing 
impresses  the  mind  with  a  deeper  feeling  of  loneliness,  than  to 
tread  the  silent  and  deserted  scene  of  former  throng  and  pageant. 
On  looking  round  on  the  vacant  stalls  of  the  knights  and  their 
esquires,  and  on  the  rows  of  dusty  but  gorgeous  banners  that  were 
once  borne  before  them,  my  imagination  conjured  up  the  scene 
when  this  hall  was  bright  with  the  valor  and  beauty  of  the  land, 
glittering  with  the  splendor  of  jeweled  rank  and  military  array, 
alive  with  the  tread  of  many  feet  and  the  hum  of  an  admiring 
multitude.  All  had  passed  away :  the  silence  of  death  had  set- 
tled again  upon  the  place,  interrupted  only  by  the  casual  chirp- 
ing of  birds,  which  had  found  their  way  into  the  chapel,  and  built 
their  nests  among  its  friezes  and  pendants,  —  sure  signs  of  soli- 
tariness and  desertion. 

were  not  enrolled  in  any  existing  order,  and  for  a  long  period  had  no  special 
designation  ;  but  inasmuch  as  one  of  the  most  striking  and  characteristic  parts 
of  their  admission  was  the  complete  ablution  of  their  persons  on  the  eve  of 
their  knighthood,  as  an  emblem  of  the  cleanliness  and  purity  of  their  profes- 
sion, they  were  called  "  Knights  of  the  Bath."  The  King  himself  bathed  on 
this  occasion  with  them.  The  ceremony  took  place  at  Westminster;  the 
bath,  in  the  Painted  or  Prince's  Chamber ;  and  the  vigils,  either  before  the 
Confessor's  shrine  or  in  Henry  VII.  's  Chapel. 

1  Edward  the  Confessor  (1004-66).  He  acceded  to  the  throne  in  1043. 
He  rebuilt  the  ancient  Abbey  of  Westminster. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  89 

When  I  read  the  names  inscribed  on  the  banners,  they  were 
those  of  men  scattered  far  and  wide  about  the  world,  some  toss- 
ing upon  distant  seas,  some  under  arms  in  distant  lands,  some 
mingling  in  the  busy  intrigues  of  courts  and  cabinets,  all  seeking 
to  deserve  one  more  distinction  in  this  mansion  of  shadowy  hon- 
ors, —  the  melancholy  reward  of  a  monument. 

Two  small  aisles  on  each  side  of  this  chapel  present  a  touch- 
ing instance  of  the  equality  of  the  grave,  which  brings  down  the 
oppressor  to  a  level  with  the  oppressed,  and  mingles  the  dust  of 
the  bitterest  enemies  together.  In  one  is  the  sepulcher  of  the 
haughty  Elizabeth : l  in  the  other  is  that  of  her  victim,  the  lovely 
and  unfortunate  Mary.2  Not  an  hour  in  the  day  but  some  ejacu- 
lation of  pity  is  uttered  over  the  fate  of  the  latter,  mingled  with 
indignation  at  her  oppressor.  The  walls  of  Elizabeth's  sepulcher 
continually  echo  with  the  sighs  of  sympathy  heaved  at  the  grave 
of  her  rival. 

A  peculiar  melancholy  reigns  over  the  aisle  where  Mary  lies 
buried.  The  light  struggles  dimly  through  windows  darkened  by 
dust.  The  greater  part  of  the  place  is  in  deep  shadow,  and  the 
walls  are  stained  and  tinted  by  time  and  weather.  A  marble 
figure  of  Mary  is  stretched  upon  the  tomb,  round  which  is  an 
iron  railing,  much  corroded,  bearing  her  national  emblem,  —  the 
thistle.3  I  was  weary  with  wandering,  and  sat  down  to  rest  myself 

1  Elizabeth  (born  in  1533)  reigned  as  Queen  of  England  from  1558  to  1603, 
when  she  died.     She  was  the  last  of  the  Tudors,  and  was  called  "  the  lion- 
hearted  Elizabeth."     James  I.  had  the  body  of  Queen  Elizabeth  taken  from 
the  Cathedral  Church  of  Peterborough,  and  a  monument  erected  over  her  in 
Westminster  Abbey. 

2  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  daughter  of  James  V.  of  Scotland,  was  born  i)» 
1542.     She  was  charged  by  Queen  Elizabeth  with  having  entered  into  a  con- 
spiracy against  the  life  of  the  latter,  and  ordered  to  be  executed.     Queen 
Elizabeth  signed  the  death  warrant  on  the  ist  of  February,  1587;  and  on  the 
morning  of  the  8th  of  February,  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  protesting  her  inno- 
cence, was  beheaded. 

3  The  thistle,  which  gives  name  to  the  Scottish  order,  is  also  an  heraldic 
wearing  in  that  country. 


90  IRVING.  . 

by  the  monument,  revolving  in  my  mind  the  checkered  and  disas- 
trous story  of  poor  Mary. 

The  sound  of  casual  footsteps  had  ceased  from  the  Abbey.  I 
could  only  hear  now  and  then  the  distant  voice  of  the  priest  re- 
peating the  evening  service,  and  the  faint  responses  of  the  choir. 
These  paused  for  a  time,  and  all  was  hushed.  The  stillness,  the 
desertion  and  obscurity,  that  were  gradually  prevailing  around, 
gave  a  deeper  and  more  solemn  interest  to  the  place : 

For  in  the  silent  grave  no  conversation, 

No  joyful  tread  of  friends,  no  voice  of  lovers, 

No  careful  father's  counsel,  —  nothing's  heard, 

For  nothing  is,  but  all  oblivion, 

Dust  and  an  endless  darkness. 

Suddenly  the  notes  of  the  deep-laboring  organ  burst  upon  the 
ear,  falling  with  doubled  and  redoubled  intensity,  and  rolling,  as 
it  were,  huge  billows  of  sound.  How  well  do  their  volume  and 
grandeur  accord  with  this  mighty  building!  With  what  pomp 
do  they  swell  through  its  vast  vaults,  and  breathe  their  awful 
harmony  through  these  caves  of  death,  and  make  the  silent  sep- 
ulcher  vocal!  And  now  they  rise  in  triumph  and  acclamation, 
heaving  higher  and  higher  their  accordant  notes,  and  piling  sound 
on  sound.  And  now  they  pause,  and  the  soft  voices  of  the  choir 
break  out  into  sweet  gushes  of  melody :  they  soar  aloft  and  war- 
ble along  the  roof,  and  seem  to  play  about  these  lofty  vaults 
like  the  pure  airs  of  heaven.  Again  |the  pealing  organ  heaves 
its  thrilling  thunders,  compressing  air  into  music,  and  rolling  it 
forth  upon  the  soul.  What  long-drawn  cadences!  What  solemn 
sweeping  concords !  It  grows  more  and  more  dense  and  power- 
ful ;  it  fills  the  vast  pile,  and  seems  to  jar  the  very  walls ;  the  ear 
is  stunned ;  the  senses  are  overwhelmed.  And  now  it  is  winding 
up  in  full  jubilee.  It  is  rising  from  the  earth  to  heaven.  The 
very  soul  seems  rapt  away  and  floated  upwards  on  this  swelling 
tide  of  harmony. 

I  sat  for  some  time  lost  in  that  kind  of  reverie  which  a  strain 
of  music  is  apt  sometimes  to  inspire.  The  shadows  of  evening 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK.  91 

were  gradually  thickening  around  me,  the  monuments  began  to 
cast  deeper  and  deeper  gloom,  and  the  distant  clock  again  gave 
token  of  th»  slowly  waning  day,_ 

I  rose,  and  prepared  to  leave  the  Abbey.  As  I  descended  the 
flight  of  steps  which  lead  into  the  body  of  the  building,  my  eye 
was  caught  by  the  shrine l  of  Edward  the  Confessor ;  and  I  as- 
cended the  small  staircase  that  conducts  to  it,  to  take  from  thence 
a  general  survey  of  this  wilderness  of  tombs.  The  shrine  is  ele- 
vated upon  a  kind  of  platform,  and  close  around  it  are  the  sepul- 
chers  of  various  kings  and  queens.  From  this  eminence  the  eye 
looks  down  between  pillars  and  funeral  trophies  to  the  chapels 
and  chambers  below,  crowded  with  tombs,  where  warriors,  prel- 
ates, courtiers,  and  statesmen  lie  moldering  in  their  "beds  of 
darkness."  Close  by  me  stood  the  great  chair  of  coronation,2 
rudely  carved  of  oak,  in  the  barbarous  taste  of  a  remote  and 
Gothic  age.  The  scene  seemed  almost  as  if  contrived,  with  the- 
atrical artifice,  to  produce  an  effect  upon  the  beholder.  Here 
was  a  type  of  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  human  pomp  and 
power :  here  it  was  literally  but  a  step  from  the  throne  to  the 
sepulcher.  Would  not  one  think  that  these  incongruous  memen- 
tos had  been  gathered  together  as  a  lesson  to  living  greatness?  — 
to  show  it,  even  in  the  moment  of  its  proudest  exaltation,  the 
neglect  and  dishonor  to  which  it  must  soon  arrive ;  how  soon  that 
crown  which  encircles  its  brow  must  pass  away,  and  it  must  lie 
down  in  the  dust  and  disgraces  of  the  tomb,  and  be  trampled 

1  Erected  by  Henry  III.  on  the  canonizing  of  Edward,  King  of  England, 
by  Pope  Alexander  III.,  who  caused  his  name  to  be  placed  in  the  catalogue 
of  saints.     The  shrine  was  the  work  of  the  Italian  artist  Cavallini.     This 
shrine  was  2  constant  object  of  pilgrimages  from  all  parts  of  England  all 
through  the  middle  ages. 

2  This  chair  must  have  been  specially  constructed  for  the  reception  of  the 
famous  stone  which  Edward  I.  brought  from  Scotland  in  1296.     It  has  been 
constantly  used  at  coronations  ever  since.     The  coronation  takes  place  while 
the  sovereign  is  seated  in  the  chair.     The  last  time  it  was  brought  out  from 
the  chapel  where  it  stands  was  at  the  Jubilee  Thanksgiving  service  (1888), 
when  the  Queen  sat  in  it  during  the  ceremonial. 


92  IRVING. 

upon  by  the  feet  of  the  meanest  of  the  multitude  :  for,  strange  to 
tell,  even  the  grave  is  here  no  longer  a  sanctuary.  There  is  a 
shocking  levity  in  some  natures,  which  leads  them  to  sport  with 
awful  and  hallowed  things ;  and  there  are  base  minds,  which 
delight  to  revenge  on  the  illustrious  dead  the  abject  homage  and 
groveling  servility  which  they  pay  to  the  living.  The  coffin  of 
Edward  the  Confessor  has  been  broken  open,  and  his  remains 
despoiled  of  their  funeral  ornaments  ;  the  scepter  has  been  stolen 
from  the  hand  of  the  imperious  Elizabeth;  and  the  effigy  of 
Henry  V.  lies  headless.1  Not  a  royal  monument  but  bears  some 
proof  how  false  and  fugitive  is  the  homage  of  mankind.  Some 
are  plundered,  some  mutilated,  some  covered  with  ribaldry  and 
insult,  all  more  or  less  outraged  and  dishonored. 

The  last  beams  of  day  were  now  faintly  streaming  through  the 
painted  windows  in  the  high  vaults  above  me.  The  lower  parts 
of  the  Abbey  were  already  wrapped  in  the  obscurity  of  twilight. 
The  chapels  and  aisles  grew  darker  and  darker.  The  effigies  of 
the  kings  faded  into  shadows ;  the  marble  figures  of  the  monu- 
ments assumed  strange  shapes  in  the  uncertain  light ;  the  even- 
ing breeze  crept  through  the  aisles  like  the  cold  breath  of  the 
grave ;  and  even  the  distant  footfall  of  a  verger,  traversing  the 
Poet's  Corner,  had  something  strange  and  dreary  in  its  sound. 
I  slowly  retraced  my  morning's  walk ;  and  as  I,  passed  out  at 
the  portal  of  the  cloisters,,  the  door,  closing  with  a  jarring  noise 
behind  me,  filled  the  whole  building  with  echoes. 

I  endeavored  to  form  some  arrangement  in  my  mind  of  the 
objects  I  had  been  contemplating,  but  found  they  were  already 
falling  into  indistinctness  and  confusion.  Names,  inscriptions, 
trophies,  had  all  become  confounded  in  my  recollection,  though 
I  had  scarcely  taken  my  foot  trom  off  the  threshold.  What, 
thought  I,  is  this  vast  assemblage  of  sepulchers,  but  a  treasury  of 

1  The  effigy  is  said  to  have  originally  been  plated  with  silver,  and  the  head 
to  have  been  of  solid  silver.  Nothing  is  now  left  but  the  wooden  fdrm  upon 
which  the  gilded  plates  were  fastened.  Henry  V.  was  King  of  England  from 
1413  to  1422. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  93 

humiliation,  —  a  huge  pile  of  reiterated  homilies  on  the  emptiness 
of  renown  and  the  certainty  of  oblivion?  ,  It  is,  indeed,  the  em- 
pire of  Death ;  his  great,  shadowy  palace,  where  he  sits  in  state, 
mocking  at  the  relics  of  human  glory,  and  spreading  dust  and 
forgetfulness  on  the  monuments  of  princes.  How  idle  a  boast, 
after  all,  is  the  immortality  of  a  name!  Time  is  ever  silently 
turning  over  his  pages.  We  are  too  much  engrossed  by  the  story 
of  the  present  to  think  of  the  characters  and  anecdotes  that  gave 
interest  to  the  past ;  and  each  age  is  a  volume  thrown  aside  to 
be  speedily  forgotten.  The  idol  of  to-day  pushes  the  hero  of 
yesterday  out  of  our  recollection,  and  will,  jn  turn,  be  supplanted 
by  his  successor  of  to-morrow.  "  Our  fathers,"  says  Sir  Thomas 
Brown,1  "  find  their  graves  in  our  short  memories,  and  sadly  tell 
us  how  we  may  be  buried  in  our  survivors."  History  fades  into 
fable,  fact  becomes  clouded  with  doubt  and  controversy,  the 
inscription  molders  from  the  tablet,  the  statue  falls  from  the  ped- 
estal. Columns,  arches,  pyramids  —  what  are  they  but  heaps 
of  sand,  and  their  epitaphs  but  characters  written  in  the  dust? 
What  is  the  security  of  the  tomb,  or  the  perpetuity  of  an  embalm- 
ment? The  remains  of  Alexander  the  Great2  have  been  scattered 
to  the  wind,  and  his  empty  sarcophagus  is  now  the  mere  curiosity 
of  a  museum.  "The  Egyptian  mummies,  which  Cambyses3  or 


1  A  distinguished  English  writer,  born  in  London  in  1605.     He  graduated 
at  Oxford  in  1626;  studied  medicine  and  practiced  in  Oxfordshire,  and  re- 
ceived the  degree  of  M.D.  at  the  University  of  Leyden.     He  published  a 
work,  Religio  Medici,  which  was  a  success,  and  he  became  celebrated  as  a 
man  of  letters.     In  1671  he  was  made  a  knight  by  Charles  II. 

2  Alexander  III.    (commonly  called  "the   Great")  was  born  at  Pella, 
356  B.C.    He  was  a  great  warrior,  and  successful  in  all  his  exploits,  conquer- 
ing all  the  world  then  known.     He  died  after  a  reign  of  less  than  thirteen 
years,  and  before  he  had  reached  the  age  of  thirty-three. 

3  The  elder  son  and  successor  of  Cyrus,  who  reigned  over  the  Persian 
Empire  for  seven  years  and  five  months  (529-521  B.C.).    He  made  a  conquest 
of  Egypf  in  525  B.C.      He  assumed  the  responsibilities  and  titles  proper  to 
a  king  of  Egypt,  taking  as  his  throne  name  that  of  "  Kambath-Remesot, 
Lord  of  Upper  and  Lower  Egypt." 


94  IRVING. 

time   hath   spared,    avarice   now   consumeth.     Mizraim1   cures 
wounds,  and  Pharaoh2  is  sold  for  balsams."3 

What,  then,  is  to  insure  this  pile  which  now  towers  above  me 
from  sharing  the  fate  of  mightier  mausoleums?  The  time  must 
come  when  its  gilded  vaults,  which  now  spring  so  loftily,  shall  lie 
in  rubbish  beneath  the  feet ;  when,  instead  of  the  sound  of  mel- 
ody and  praise,  the  wind  shall  whistle  through  the  broken  arches, 
and  the  owl  hoot  from  the  shattered  tower ;  when  the  garish  sun- 
beam shall  break  into  these  gloomy  mansions  of  death,  and  the 
ivy  twine  round  the  fallen  column,  and  the  fox-glove  hang  its 
blossoms  about  the  nameless  urn  as  if  in  mockery  of  the  dead. 
Thus  man  passes  away ;  his  name  perishes  from  record  and  rec- 
ollection ;  his  history  is  as  a  tale  that  is  told ;  and  his  very 
monument  becomes  a  ruin. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW. 

{Found  among  the  Papers  of  the  Late  Diedrich  Knickerbocker. ,] 

"A  pleasing  land  of  drowsy  head  it  was, 

Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half -shut  eyey 
And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass, 
Forever  flushing  round  a  summer  sky." 

CASTLE  OF  INDOLENCE.* 

IN  the  bosom  of  one  of  those  spacious  coves  which  indent  the 
eastern  shore  of  the  Hudson,  at  that  broad  expansion  of  the 
river  denominated  by  the  ancient  Dutch  navigators  the  Tappan 

1  Mizraim,  or  Mizri,  is  the  Hebrew  name  for  Egypt. 

2  The  title  of  Pharaoh  was  applied  to  the  kings  of  Egypt,  from  Menes  to 
Solomon. 

3  From  Sir  T.  Brown.     In  the  sixteenth  and  part  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
turies, mummy  formed  one  of  the  ordinary  drugs,  and  was  found  in  the  shops 
of  all  the  apothecaries.     Tombs  were  searched,  and  as  many  mummies  as 
could  be  obtained  were  broken  into  pieces  for  the  purpose  of  sale.*  Physi- 
cians of  all  nations  commonly  prescribed  it  in  cases  of  bruises  and  wounds. 

4  James  Thomson  (1700-48)  was  the  son  of  a  Scotch  minister,  and  author 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  95 

Zee,1  and  where  they  always  prudently  shortened  sail,  and  im- 
plored the  protection  of  St.  Nicholas2  when  they  crossed,  there 
lies  a  small  market  town  or  rural  port,  which  by  some  is  called 
Greensburgh,  but  which  is  more  generally  and  properly  known 
by  the  name  of  "  Tarrytown."3  This  name  was  given  it,  we 
are  told,  in  former  days,  by  the  good  housewives  of  the  adjacent 
country,  from  the  inveterate  propensity  of  their  husbands  to  lin- 
ger about  the  village  tavern  on  market  days.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
I  do  not  vouch  for  the  fact,  but  merely  advert  to  it  for  the  sake 
of  being  precise  and  authentic.  Not  far  from  this  village,  per- 
haps about  three  miles,  there  is  a  little  valley,  or  rather  lap  of 
land,  among  high  hills,  which  is  one  of  the  quietest  places  in  the 
whole  world.  A  small  brook  glides  through  it,  with  just  murmur 
enough  to  lull  one  to  repose ;  and  the  occasional  whistle  of  a 
quail,  or  tapping  of  a  woodpecker,  is  almost  the  only  sound  that 
ever  breaks  in  upon  the  uniform  tranquillity. 

I  recollect,  that,  when  a  stripling,  my  first  exploit  in  squirrel- 
shooting  was  in  a  grove  of  tall  walnut-trees  that  shades  one  side 
of  the  valley.  I  had  wandered  into  it  at  noontime,  when  all  na- 
ture is  peculiarly  quiet,  and  was  startled  by  the  roar  of  my  own 
gun,  as  it  broke  the  sabbath  stillness  around,  and  was  prolonged 
and  reverberated  by  the  angry  echoes.  If  ever  I  should  wish  for 
a  retreat,  whither  I  might  steal  from  the  world  and  its  distrac- 

of  The  Seasons,  which  gave  him  a  great  reputation.  The  Castle  of  Indo- 
lence, from  which  the  above  verse  is  quoted,  was  his  last  work,  and  was  pub- 
lished the  year  he  died.  Till  the  advent  of  Scott  and  Byron,  Thomson  was 
the  most  widely  popular  poet  in  our  language. 

1  The  expansion  of  the  Hudson  River  between  Haverstraw  and  Piermont, 
having  a  length  of  about  twelve  miles,  and  a  breadth  in  the  neighborhood  ot 
from  four  to  five  miles. 

2  Bishop  of  Myra  in  the  fourth  century.      He  was   also  the  mariner's 
saint,  and  is  the  present  patron  of  those  who  lead  a  seafaring  life  (as  Nep- 
tune was  of  old). 

3  Tarrytown  is  twenty-seven  miles  from  New  York.     It  is  famous  both 
historically  and  from  its  connection  with  Washington  Irving,  whose  cottage,, 
"  Sunny  side,"  is  in  the  vicinity. 


96  IRVING. 

tions,  and  dream  quietly  away  the  temnant  of  a  troubled  life,  I 
know  of  none  more  promising  than  this  little  valley. 

From  the  listless  repose  of  the  place,  and  the  peculiar  char- 
acter of  its  inhabitants,  who  are  descendants  from  the  original 
Dutch  settlers,  this  sequestered  glen  has  long  been  known  by 
the  name  of  "  Sleepy  Hollow,"  and  its  rustic  lads  are  called  the 
"  Sleepy  Hollow  Boys  "  throughout  all  the  neighboring  country. 
A  drowsy,  dreamy  influence  seems  to  hang  over  the  land,  and 
to  pervade  the  very  atmosphere.  Some  say  that  the  place  was 
bewitched  by  a  high  German  doctor  during  the  early  days  of  the 
settlement ;  others,  that  an  old  Indian  chief,  the  prophet  or  wiz- 
ard of  his  tribe,  held  his  powwows  there  before  the  country  was 
discovered  by  Master  Hendrick  Hudson.1  Certain  it  is,  the 
place  still  continues  under  the  sway  of  some  witching  power,  that 
holds  a  spell  over  the  minds  of  the  good  people,  causing  them  to 
walk  in  a  continual  reverie.  They  are  given  to  all  kinds  of  mar- 
velous beliefs ;  are  subject  to  trances  and  visions ;  and  frequently 
see  strange  sights,  and  hear  music  and  voices  in  the  air.  The 
whole  neighborhood  abounds  with  local  tales,  haunted  spots, 
and  twilight  superstitions ;  stars  shoot  and  meteors  glare  oftener 
across  the  valley  than  in  any  other  part  of  the  country ;  and  the 
nightmare,  with  her  whole  ninefold,2  seems  to  make  it  the  favor- 
ite scene  of  her  gambols. 

The  dominant  spirit,  however,  that  haunts  this  enchanted  re- 
gion, and  seems  to  be  commander-in-chief  of  all  the  powers  of 
the  air,  is  the  apparition  of  a  figure  on  horseback  without  a  head. 
It  is  said  by  some  to  be  the  ghost  of  a  Hessian3  trooper,  whose 

1  A  distinguished  English  navigator,  who  made  four  voyages,  attempting 
to  find  a  shorter  passage  to  China  than  by  the  way  of  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope. 
On  the  third  of  these  voyages  he  entered  the  bay  now  called  New  York  Bay, 
and  (Sept.  u,  1609)  sailed  up  what  is  now  the  Hudson  River.     During  his 
fourth  voyage,  two  years  later,  he  penetrated  the  straits  and  discovered  the 
great  bay  of  Canada  which  now  bears  his  name.     Here  his  mutinous  sailors 
cast  him  adrift  in  a  small  boat,  and  left  him  to  die. 

2  See  King  Lear,  act  iii.  sc.  4. 

3  These  Hessians  came  from  a  province  of  western  Germany  called  Hesse- 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK.  97 

head  had  been  carried  away  by  a  cannon-ball  in  some  nameless 
battle  during  the  Revolutionary  war,  and  who  is  ever  and  anon 
seen  by  the  country  folk  hurrying  along  in  the  gloom  of  night,  as 
if  on  the  wings  of  the  wind.  His  haunts  are  not  confined  to  the 
valley,  but  extend  at  times  to  the  adjacent  roads,  and  especially 
to  the  vicinity  of  a  church  that  is  at  no  great  distance.  Indeed, 
certain  of  the  most  authentic  historians  of  those  parts,  who  have 
been  careful  in  collecting  and  collating  the  floating  facts  concern- 
ing thte  specter,  allege  that,  the  body  of  the  trooper  having  been 
buried  in  the  churchyard,  the  ghost  rides  forth  to  the  scene  of 
battle  in  nightly  quest  of  his  head ;  and  that  the  rushing  speed 
with  which  he  sometimes  passes  along  the  hollow,  like  a  midnight 
blast,  is  owing  to  his  being  belated,  and  in  a  hurry  to  get  back 
to  the  churchyard  before  daybreak. 

Such  is  the  general  purport  of  this  legendary  superstition, 
which  has  furnished  materials  for  many  a  wild  story  in  that 
region  of  shadows ;  and  the  specter  is  known  at  all  the  country 
firesides  by  the  name  of  "  The  Headless  Horseman  of  Sleepy 
Hollow." 

It  is  remarkable  that  the  visionary  propensity  I  have  men- 
tioned is  not  confined  to  the  native  inhabitants  of  the  valley,  but 
is  unconsciously  imbibed  by  every  one  who  resides  there  for  a 
time.  However  wide-awake  they  may  have  been  before  they 
entered  that  sleepy  region,  they  are  sure,  in  a  little  time,  to  inhale 
the  witching  influence  of  the  air,  and  begin  to  grow  imaginative, 
—  to  dream  dreams,  and  see  apparitions. 

I  mention  this  peaceful  spot  with  all  possible  laud :  for  it  is  in 
such  little  retired  Dutch  valleys,  found  here  and  there  em- 
bosomed in  the  great  State  of  New  York,  that  population, 
manners,  and  customs  remain  fixed ;  while  the  great  torrent  of 
migration  and  improvement,  which  is  making  such  incessant 
changes  in  other  parts  of  this  restless  country,  sweeps  by  them 

CasseJ.  They  were  brought  to  America  by  the  British  in  1776,  having  been 
hired  by  them  to  fight  against  the  American  troops. 

7 


98  IRVING. 

unobserved.  They  are  like  those  little  nooks  of  still  water  which 
border  a  rapid  stream,  where  we  may  see  the  straw  and  bubble 
riding  quietly  at  anchor,  or  slowly  revolving  in  their  mimic  har- 
bor, undisturbed  by  the  rush  of  the  passing  current.  Though 
many  years  have  elapsed  since  I  trod  the  drowsy  shades  of 
Sleepy  Hollow,  yet  I  question  whether  I  should  not  still  find 
the  same  trees  and  the  same  families  vegetating  in  its  sheltered 
bosom. 

In  this  by-place  of  Nature  there  abode,  in  a  remote  period  of 
American  history,  —  that  is  to  say,  some  thirty  years  since,  —  a 
worthy  wight  of  the  name  of  Ichabod  Crane,  who  sojourned,  or, 
as  he  expressed  it,  "  tarried,"  in  Sleepy  Hollow,  for  the  purpose 
of  instructing  the  children  of  the  vicinity.  He  was  a  native  of 
Connecticut,  —  a  State  which  supplies  the  Union  with  pioneers 
for  the  mind  as  well  as  for  the  forest,  and  sends  forth  yearly  its 
legions  of  frontier  woodmen  and  country  schoolmasters.  The 
cognomen  of  Crane  was  not  inapplicable  to  his  person.  He  was 
tall,  but  exceedingly  lank,  with  narrow  shoulders,  long  arms  and 
legs,  hands  that  dangled  a  mile  out  of  his  sleeves,  feet  that  might 
have  served  for  shovels,  and  his  whole  frame  most  loosely  hung 
together.  His  head  was  small,  and  flat  at  top,  with  huge  ears, 
large  green  glassy  eyes,  and  a  long  snipe  nose,  so  that  it  looked 
like  a  weathercock  perched  upon  his  spindle  neck  to  tell  which 
way  the  wind  blew.  To  see  him  striding  along  the  profile  of  a 
hill  on  a  windy  day,  with  his  clothes  bagging  and  fluttering  about 
him,  one  might  have  mistaken  him  for  the  genius  of  famine  de- 
scending upon  the  earth,  or  some  scarecrow  eloped  from  a  corn- 
field. 

His  schoolhouse  was  a  low  building  of  one  large  room,  rudely 
constructed  of  logs;  the  windows  partly  glazed,  and  partly 
patched  with  leaves  of  old  copy-books.  It  was  most  ingeniously 
secured  at  vacant  hours  by  a  withe  twisted  in  the  handle  of  the 
door,  and  stakes  set  against  the  window-shutters  ;  so  that,  though 
a  thief  might  get  in  with  perfect  ease,  he  would  find  some  em- 
barrassment in  getting  out,  —  an  idea  most  probably  borrowed 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  99 

by  the  architect,  Yost  Van  Houten,  from  the  mystery  of  an  eel- 
pot.1  The  schoolhouse  stood  in  a  rather  lonely  but  pleasant 
situation,  just  at  the  foot  of  a  woody  hill,  with  a  brook  running 
close  by,  and  a  formidable  birch-tree  growing  at  one  end  of  it. 
From  hence  the  low  murmur  of  his  pupils'  voices,  conning  over 
their  lessons,  might  be  heard  of  a  drowsy  summer's  day,  like  the 
hum  of  a  beehive ;  interrupted  now  and  then  by  the  authoritative 
voice  of  the  master  in  the  tone  of  menace  or  command,  or,  per- 
adventure,  by  the  appalling  sound  of  the  birch  as  he  urged  some 
tardy  loiterer  along  the  flowery  path  of  knowledge.  Truth  to 
say,  he  was  a  conscientious  man,  that  ever  bore  in  mind  the 
golden  maxim,  "Spare  the  rod  and  spoil  the  child."2  Ichabod 
Crane's  scholars  certainly  were  not  spoiled. 

I  would  not  have  it  imagined,  however,  that  he  was  one  of 
those  cruel  potentates  of  the  school  who  joy  in  the  smart  of  their 
subjects :  on  the  contrary,  he  administered  justice  with  discrimi- 
nation rather  than  severity ;  taking  the  burthen  off  the  backs  of 
the  weak,  and  laying  it  on  those  of  the  strong.  Your  mere  puny 
stripling,  that  winced  at  the  least  flourish  of  the  rod,  was  passed 
by  with  indulgence ;  but  the  claims  of  justice  were  satisfied  by 
inflicting  a  double  portion  on  some  little,  tough,  wrong-headed, 
broad-skirted  Dutch  urchin,  who  sulked  and  swelled  and  grew 
dogged  and  sullen  beneath  the  birch.  All  this  he  called  "  doing 
his  duty  by  their  parents;"  and  he  never  inflicted  a  chastisement 
without  following  it  by  the  assurance,  so  consolatory  to  the  smart- 
ing urchin,  that  "  he  would  remember  it  and  thank  him  for  it  the 
longest  day  he  had  to  live." 

When  school  hours  were  over,  he  was  even  the  companion 
and  playmate  of  the  larger  boys,  and  on  holiday  afternoons  would 
convoy  some  of  the  smaller  ones  home,  who  happened  to  have 
pretty  sisters,  or  good  housewives  for  mothers,  noted  for  the 

1  A  box  or  basket  for  catching  eels.  The  only  opening  is  at  the  bottom  of 
a  funnel-shaped  entrance,  and  is  so  small  and  so  located,  that,  having  entered 
it,  the  eels  cannot  easily  find  it  again  in  order  to  get  out. 

8  King  Solomon's. 


ioo  IRVING. 

comforts  of  the  cupboard.  Indeed,  it  behooved  him  to  keep  on 
good  terms  with  his  pupils.  The  revenue  arising  from  his  school 
was  small,  and  would  have  been  scarcely  sufficient  to  furnish  him 
with  daily  bread,  for  he  was  a  huge  feeder,  and,  though  lank, 
had  the  dilating  powers  of  an  anaconda;1  but  to  help  out  his 
maintenance,  he  was,  according  to  country  custom  in  those  parts, 
boarded  and  lodged  at  the  houses  of  the  farmers  whose  children 
he  instructed.  With  these  he  lived  successively  a  week  at  a  time ; 
thus  going  the  rounds  of  the  neighborhood,  with  all  his  worldly 
effects  tied  up  in  a  cotton  handkerchief. 

That  all  this  might  not  be  too  onerous  on  the  purses  of  his 
rustic  patrons,  who  are  apt  to  consider  the  costs  of  schooling  a 
grievous  burthen,  and  schoolmasters  as  mere  drones,  he  had  vari- 
ous ways  of  rendering  himself  both  useful  and  agreeable.  He 
assisted  the  farmers  occasionally  in  the  lighter  labors  of  their 
farms,  helped  to  make  hay,  mended  the  fences,  took  the  horses  to 
water,  drove  the  cows  from  pasture,  and  cut  wood  for  the  winter 
fire.  He  laid  aside,  too,  all  the  dominant  dignity  and  absolute 
sway  with  which  he  lorded  it  in  his  little  empire  the  school,  and 
became  wonderfully  gentle  and  ingratiating.  He  found  favor  in 
the  eyes  of  the  mothers  by  petting  the  children,  particularly  the 
youngest ;  and  like  "  the  lion  bold,"  which  whilom  so  magnani- 
mously "  the* lamb  did  hold,"2  he  would  sit  with  a  child  on  one 
knee,  and  rock  a  cradle  with  his  foot  for  whole  hours  together. 

In  addition  to  his  other  vocations,  he  was  the  singing-master 
of  the  neighborhood,  and  picked  up  many  bright  shillings  by 
instructing  the  young  folks  in  psalmody.  It  was  a  matter  of  no 
little  vanity  to  him  on  Sundays,  to  take  his  station  in  front  of  the 

1  A  reptile  possessing  extraordinary  powers  of  dilation.     It  kills  by  con- 
striction. 

2  The  New  England  Primer,  published  in  Walpole,  N.H.,  in  1814,  con- 
tains an  illustrated  alphabet.     The  letter  L  is  illustrated  by  a  lion  with  one 
of  its  paws  resting  upon  a  lamb  which  is  lying  down,  and  the  following 

lines :  — 

11  The  Lion  bold 
The  Lamb  doth  hold.'' 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  IOI 

church  gallery  with  a  band  of  chosen  singers,  where,  in  his  own 
mind,  he  completely  carried  away  the  palm  from  the  parson.1 
Certain  it  is,  his  voice  resounded  far  above  all  the  rest  of  the 
congregation ;  and  there  are  peculiar  quavers,  still  tQ  be  heard  ift 
that  church,  and  which  may  even  be  heard  ha-f-a  milejoff,  quite 
to  the  opposite  side  of  the  mill-pond,  OP  a  still  Sunday  mprpipg, 
which  are  said  to  be  legitimately  descended  from  the  noso  of 
Ichabod  Crane.  Thus,  by  divers  little  makeshifts  in  that  ingen- 
ious way  which  is  commonly  denominated  "by  hook  and  by 
crook,"2  the  worthy  pedagogue  got  on  tolerably  enough,  and  was 
thought,  by  all  who  understood  nothing  of  the  labor  of  headwork, 
to  have  a  wonderfully  easy  life  of  it. 

The  schoolmaster  is  generally  a  man  of  some  importance  in  the 
female  circle  of  a  rural  neighborhood,  being  considered  a  kind 
of  idle,  gentlemanlike  personage,  of  vastly  superior  taste  and  ac- 
complishments to  the  rough  country  swains,  and.  indeed,  inferior 
in  learning  only  to  the  parson.  His  appearance,  therefore,  is 
apt  to  occasion  some  little  stir  at  the  tea-table  of  a  farmhouse, 
and  the  addition  of  a  supernumerary  dish  of  cakes  or  sweet- 
meats, or,  peradventure,  the  parade  of  a  silver  teapot.  Our  man 
of  letters,  therefore,  was  peculiarly  happy  in  the  smiles  of  all  the 
country  damsels.  How  he  would  figure  among  them  in  the 
churchyard,  between  services  on  Sundays!  gathering  grapes  for 
them  from  the  wild  vines  that  overrun  the  surrounding  trees ;  re- 
citing for  their  amusement  all  the  epitaphs  on  the  tombstones ; 
or  sauntering  with  a  whole  bevy  of  them  along  the  banks  of  the 
adjacent  mill-pond ;  while  the  more  bashful  country  bumpkins 
hung  sheepishly  back,  envying  his  superior  elegance  and  address. 

From  his  half  itineiant  life,  also,  he  was  a  kind  of  traveling 

1  Surpassed  the  parson  in  point  of  excellence. 

2  Formerly  the  poor  of  a  manor  were  allowed  to  go  into  the  forests  with  a 
hook  and  crook  to  get  wood.     What  they  could  not  reach,  they  might  pull 
down  with  their  crook.     This  sort  of  living  was  very  precarious,  but  eagerly 
sought.     Boundary  stones,  beyond  which  "  the  hook  and  crook  folk  "  might 
not  pass,  exist  still. 


102  IRVING. 

gazette,  carrying  the  whole  budget  of  local  gossip  from  house  to 
house ;  so  that  his  appearance  was  always  greeted  with  satisfac- 
tion. He  was,  moreover,  esteemed  by  the  women  as  a  man  of 
,  great  eruditi9n,,fqr,hc  had  read  several  books  quite  through,  and 
\yas  a  perfect  /r.as.terrof  Cotton  Mather's1  "  History  of  New  Eng- 
land .Witchcraft ;."  in.  which,  by  the  way,  he  most  firmly  and 
^potently  believed.-  - 

He  was,  in  fact,  an  odd  mixture  of  small  shrewdness  and  sim- 
ple credulity.  His  appetite  for  the  marvelous,  and  his  powers 
of  digesting  it,  were  equally  extraordinary ;  and  both  had  been 
increased  by  his  residence  in  this  spell-bound  region.  No  tale 
was  too  gross  or  monstrous  for  his  capacious  swallow.  It  was 
often  his  delight,  after  his  school  was  dismissed  in  the  afternoon, 
to  stretch  himself  on  the  rich  bed  of  clover  bordering  the  little 
brook  that  whimpered  by  his  schoolhouse,  and  there  con  over 
old  Mather's  direful  tales,  until  the  gathering  dusk  of  evening 
made  the  printed  page  a  mere  mist  before  his  eyes.  Then,  as  he 
wended  his  way,  by  swamp  and  stream  and  awful  woodland,  to 
the  farmhouse  where  he  happened  to  be  quartered,  every  sound 
of  Nature,  at  that  witching  hour,  fluttered  his  excited  imagination, 
—  the  moan  of  the  whip-poor-will 2  from  the  hillside  ;  the  boding 
cry  of  the  tree-toad,  that  harbinger  of  storm ;  the  dreary  hooting 
of  the  screech-owl ;  or  the  sudden  rustling  in  the  thicket  of  birds 
frightened  from  their  roost.  The  fire-flies,  too,  which  sparkled 
most  vividly  in  the  darkest  places,  now  and  then  startled  him,  as 
one  of  uncommon  brightness  would  stream  across  his  path ;  and 
if  by  chance  a  huge  blockhead  of  a  beetle  came  winging  his 


1  A  celebrated  theologian  and  writer,  born  in  Boston  in  1663.     He  was 
ordained  as  a  minister  in  1684,  and  preached  in  Boston.     From  the  first  he 
was  eager  to  bring  to  trial  and  punishment  those  supposed  to  be  guilty  of 
witchcraft ;  and,  when  others  began  clearly  to  see  the  folly  and  injustice  of 
these  cruel  persecutions,  he  earnestly,  though  vainly,  strove  to  stem  the  reac- 
tion in  the  popular  mind. 

2  A  whip-poor-will  is  a  bird  which  is  only  heard  at  night.     It  receives  its 
name  from  its  note,  which  is  thought  to  resemble  those  words. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  103 

blundering  flight  against  him,  the  poor  varlet  was  ready  to  give 
up  the  ghost,  with  the  idea  that  he  was  struck  with  a  witch's 
token.  His  only  resource  on  such  occasions,  either  to  drown 
thought  or  drive  away  evil  spirits,  was  to  sing  psalm  tunes ;  and 
the  good  people  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  as  they  sat  by  their  doors  of 
an  evening,  were  often  filled  with  awe  at  hearing  his  nasal  melody, 
"  in  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out,"  1  floating  from  the  distant 
hill  or  along  the  dusky  road. 

Another  of  his  sources  of  fearful,  pleasure  was  to  pass  long 
winter  evenings  with  the  old  Dutch  wives,  as  they  sat  spinning 
by  the  fire,  with  a  row  of  apples  roasting  and  sputtering  along 
the  hearth,  and  listen  to  their  marvelous  tales  of  ghosts  and  gob- 
lins, and  haunted  fields,  and  haunted  brooks,  and  haunted  bridges, 
and  haunted  houses,  and  particularly  of  the  headless  horseman, 
or  "  Galloping  Hessian  of  the  Hollow,"  as  they  sometimes  called 
him.  He  would  delight  them  equally  by  his  anecdotes  of  witch- 
craft, and  of  the  direful  omens  and  portentous  sights  and  sounds 
in  the  air,  which  prevailed  in  the  earlier  times  of  Connecticut,2 
and  would  frighten  them  wofully  with  speculations  upon  comets 
and  shooting  stars,  and  with  the  alarming  fact  that  the  world  did 
absolutely  turn  round,  and  that  they  were  half  the  time  topsy- 
turvy. 

But  if  there  was  a  pleasure  in  all  this,  while  snugly  cuddling  in 
the  chimney  corner  of  a  chamber  that  was  all  of  a  ruddy  glow 
from  the  crackling  wood  fire,  and  where,  of  course,  no  specter 
dared  to  show  its  face,  it  was  dearly  purchased  by  the  terrors 
of  his  subsequent  walk  homewards.  What  fearful  shapes  and 
shadows  beset  his  path  amidst  the  dim  and  ghastly  glare  of  a 
snowy  night!  With  what  wistful  look  did  he  eye  every  trem- 
bling ray  of  light  streaming  across  the  waste  fields  from  some  dis- 

1  From  Milton's  L'Allegro. 

2  In  New  England,  in  1692,  many  people  believed  in  witches.     Such  firm 
believers  were  they  in  witchcraft,  that  it  was  very  easy  to  create  a  suspicion 
against  a  person  as  a  witch.     Many  were  thrown  into  prison,  and  some  were 
hung,  in  consequence. 


104  IRVING. 

tant  window!  How  often  was  he  appalled  by  some  shrub  cov- 
ered with  snow,  which,  like  a  sheeted  specter,  beset  his  very 
path!  How  often  did  he  shrink  with  curdling  awe  at  the  sound 
of  his  own  steps  on  the  frosty  crust  beneath  his  feet,  and  dread 
to  look  over  his  shoulder,  lest  he  should  behold  some  uncouth 
being  tramping  close  behind  him !  and  how  often  was  he  thrown 
into  complete  dismay  by  some  rushing  blast,  howling  among  the 
trees,  in  the  idea  that  it  was  the  Galloping  Hessian  on  one  of  his 
nightly  scourings! 

All  these,  however,  were  mere  terrors  of  the  night,  phantoms 
of  the  mind  that  walk  in  darkness ;  and  though  he  had  seen 
many  specters  in  his  time,  and  been  more  than  once  beset  by 
Satan  in  divers  shapes  in  his  lonely  perambulations,  yet  daylight 
put  an  end  to  all  these  evils ;  and  he  would  have  passed  a  pleas- 
ant life  of  it,  in  despite  of  the  Devil  and  all  his  works,  if  his  path 
had  not  been  crossed  by  a  being  that  causes  more  perplexity  to 
mortal  man  than  ghosts,  goblins,  and  the  whole  race  of  witches 
put  together,  and  that  was  —  a  woman. 

Among  the  musical  disciples  who  assembled  one  evening  in 
each  week  to  receive  his  instructions  in  psalmody,  was  Katrina 
Van  Tassel,  the  daughter  and  only  child  of  a  substantial  Dutch 
farmer.  She  was  a  blooming  lass  of  fresh  eighteen  ;  plump  as  a 
partridge ;  ripe  and  melting  and  rosy-cheeked  as  one  of  her 
father's  peaches ;  and  universally  famed,  not  merely  for  her 
beauty,  but  her  vast  expectations.  She  was,  withal,  a  little  of  a 
coquette,  as  might  be  perceived  even  in  her  dress,  which  was  a 
mixture  of  ancient  and  modern  fashions,  as  most  suited  to  set  off 
her  charms.  She  wore  the  ornaments  of  pure  yellow  gold  which 
her  great-great-grandmother  had  brought  over  from  Saardam  ; l 
the  tempting  stomacher  of  the  olden  time ;  and,  withal,  a  pro- 
vokingly  short  petticoat,  to  display  the  prettiest  foot  and  ankle 
in  the  country  round. 

1  Zaandam,  Zaanredam,  or  Saardam,  is  a  village  of  Holland  in  the  prov- 
ince of  North  Holland,  five  miles  by  rail  from  Amsterdam.  Peter  the  Great 
of  Russia  wrought  at  Saardam  as  a  ship  carpenter  in  1697. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  105 

Ichabod  Crane  had  a  soft  and  foolish  heart  towards  the  sex ; 
and  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  so  tempting  a  morsel  soon 
found  favor  in  his  eyes,  more  especially  after  he  had  visited  her 
in  her  paternal  mansion.  Old  Baltus  Van  Tassel  was  a  perfect 
picture  of  a  thriving,  contented,  liberal-hearted  farmer.  He  sel- 
dom, it  is  true,  sent  either  his  eyes  or  his  thoughts  beyond  the 
boundaries  of  his  own  farm;  but  within  these  everything  was 
snug,  happy,  and  well-conditioned.  He  was  satisfied  with  his 
wealth,  but  not  proud  of  it,  and  piqued  himself  upon  the  hearty 
abundance  rather  than  the  style  in  which  he  lived.  His  strong- 
hold was  situated  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson,  in  one  of  those 
green,  sheltered,  fertile  nooks  in  which  the  Dutch  farmers  are  so 
fond  of  nestling.  A  great  elm-tree  spread  its  broad  branches 
over  it,  at  the  foot  of  which  bubbled  up  a  spring  of  the  softest 
and  sweetest  water  in  a  little  well  formed  of  a  barrel,  and  then 
stole  sparkling  away  through  the  grass  to  a  neighboring  brook 
that  babbled  along  among  alders  and  dwarf  willows.  Hard  by 
the  farmhouse  was  a  vast  barn  that  might  have  served  for  a 
church,  every  window  and  crevice  of  which  seemed  bursting 
forth  with  the  treasures  of  the  farm.  The  flail  was  busily  re- 
sounding within  it  from  morning  to  night ;  swallows  and  martins 
skimmed  twittering  about  the  eaves;  and  rows  of  pigeons  — 
some  with  one  eye  turned  up,  as  if  watching  the  weather ;  some 
with  their  heads  under  their  wings  or  buried  in  their  bosoms ; 
and  others  swelling,  and  cooing,  and  bowing  about  their  dames 
—  were  enjoying  the  sunshine  on  the  roof.  Sleek,  unwieldy 
porkers  were  grunting  in  the  repose  and  abundance  of  their 
pens ;  from  whence  sallied  forth,  now  and  then,  troops  of  suck- 
ing pigs,  as  if  to  snuff  the  air.  A  stately  squadron  of  snowy 
geese  were  riding  in  an  adjoining  pond,  convoying  whole  fleets 
of  ducks.  Regiments  of  turkeys  were  gobbling  through  the 
farmyard,  and  guinea-fowls  fretting  about  it  like  ill-tempered 
housewives,  with  their  peevish,  discontented  cry.  Before  the 
barn  door  strutted  the  gallant  cock,  that  pattern  of  a  husband, 
a  warrior,  and  a  fine  gentleman,  clapping  his  burnished  wings 


106  IRVING. 

and  crowing  in  the  pride  and  gladness  of  his  heart,  sometimes 
tearing  up  the  earth  with  his  feet,  and  then  generously  calling 
his  ever-hungry  family  of  wives  and  children  to  enjoy  the  rich 
morsel  which  he  had  discovered. 

The  pedagogue's  mouth  watered  as  he  looked  upon  this  sump- 
tuous promise  of  luxurious  winter  fare.  In  his  devouring  mind's 
eye  he  pictured  to  himself  every  roasting  pig  running  about  "  with 
a  pudding  in  its  belly  " 1  and  an  apple  in  its  mouth  ;  the  pigeons 
were  snugly  put  to  bed  in  a  comfortable  pie,  and  tucked  in  with 
a  coverlet  of  crust ;  the  geese  were  swimming  in  their  own  gravy ; 
and  the  ducks  pairing  cosily  in  dishes,  like  snug  married  couples, 
with  a  decent  competency  of  onion  sauce.  In  the  porkers  he  saw 
carved  out  the  future  sleek  side  of  bacon,  and  juicy,  relishing 
ham ;  not  a  turkey  but  he  beheld  daintily  trussed  up,  with  its  giz- 
zard under  its  wing,  and,  peradventure,  a  necklace  of  savory  sau- 
sages ;  and  even  bright  chanticleer2  himself  lay  sprawling  on  his 
back,  in  a  side-dish,  with  uplifted  claws,  as  if  craving  that  quar- 
ter which  his  chivalrous  spirit  disdained  to  ask  while  living. 

As  the  enraptured  Ichabod  fancied  all  this,  and  as  he  rolled 
his  great  green  eyes  over  the  fat  meadow-lands,  the  rich  fields  of 
wheat,  of  rye,  of  buckwheat  and  Indian  corn,  and  the  orchards 
burthened  with  ruddy  fruit,  which  surrounded  the  warm  tenement 
of  Van  Tassel,  his  heart  yearned  after  the  damsel  who  was  to  in- 
herit  these  domains  ;  and  his  imagination  expanded  with  the  idea, 
how  they  might  be  readily  turned  into  cash,  and  the  money  in- 
vested in  immense  tracts  of  wild  land,  and  shingle  palaces  in  the 
wilderness.  Nay,  his  busy  fancy  already  realized  his  hopes,  and 
presented  to  him  the  blooming  Katrina,  with  a  whole  family  of 
children,  mounted  on  the  top  of  a  wagon  loaded  with  household 

1  From  Shakespeare,  Henry  IV.,  Part  I.  act  ii.  sc.  4. 

2  A  cock.     Old  French,  chantecler  (from  chanter,  "to  sing;"  and  cler, 
"  clear"),  the  name  of  the  cock  in  the  poem  Reynard  the  Fox.     The  Middle 
English    forms    of    the  word  were  chauntecleer,    chaunteclere,    chanteclere. 
Compare    Chaucer,   Nun's   Priest's   Tale,   1.    501 :    "  This  chauntecleer  his 
wynges  gan  to  bete." 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  107 

trumpery,  with  pots  and  kettles  dangling  beneath ;  and  he  beheld 
himself  bestriding  a  pacing  mare,  with  a  colt  at  her  heels,  setting 
out  for  Kentucky,  Tennessee,  or  the  Lord  knows  where. 

When  he  entered  the  house,  the  conquest  of  his  heart  was  com- 
plete. It  was  one  of  those  spacious  farmhouses,  with  high-ridged 
but  lowly-sloping  roofs,  built  in  the  style  handed  down  from  the 
first  Dutch  settlers ;  the  low,  projecting  eaves  forming  a  piazza. 
along  the  front,  capable  of  being  closed  up  in  bad  weather.  Un- 
der this  were  hung  flails,  harness,  various  utensils  of  husbandry, 
and  nets  for  fishing  in  the  neighboring  river.  Benches  were  built 
along  the  sides  for  summer  use ;  and  a  great  spinning-wheel  at 
one  end,  and  a  churn  at  the  other,  showed  the  various  uses  to 
which  this  important  porch  might  be  devoted.  From  this  piazza 
the  wonderful  Ichabod  entered  the  hall,  which  formed  the  center 
of  the  mansion,  and  the  place  of  usual  residence.  Here  rows  of 
resplendent  pewter,  ranged  on  a  long  dresser,  dazzled  his  eyes. 
In  one  corner  stood  a  huge  bag  of  wool  ready  to  be  spun ;  in 
another,  a  quantity  of  linsey-woolsey1  just  from  the  loom.  Ears 
of  Indian  corn,  and  strings  of  dried  apples  and  peaches,  hung  in 
gay  festoons  along  the  walls,  mingled  with  the  gaud  of  red  pep- 
pers :  and  a  door  left  ajar  gave  him  a  peep  into  the  best  parlor, 
where  the  claw-footed  chairs  and  dark  mahogany  tables  shone 
like  mirrors ;  and  irons,  with  their  accompanying  shovel  and 
tongs,  glistened  from  their  covert  of  asparagus  tops;  mock- 
oranges  and  conch-shells  decorated  the  mantelpiece;  strings 
of  various  colored  bird's  eggs  were  suspended  above  it ;  a  great 
ostrich  egg  was  hung  from  the  center  of  the  room ;  and  a  corner 
cupboard,  knowingly  left  open,  displayed  immense  treasures  of 
old  silver  and  well-mended  china. 

From  the  moment  Ichabod  laid  his  eyes  upon  these  regions  of 
delight,  the  peace  of  his  mind  was  at  an  end,  and  his  only  study 
was  how  to  gain  the  affections  of  the  peerless  daughter  of  Van 
Tassel.  In  this  enterprise,  however,  he  had  more  real  difficulties 

1  Coarse  cloth,  having  a  linen  warp  and  a  woolen  woof. 


io8  IRVING. 

than  generally  fell  to  the  lot  of  a  knight- errant1  of  yore,  who  sel- 
dom had  anything  but  giants,  enchanters,  fiery  dragons,  and  such- 
like easily  conquered  adversaries  to  contend  with ;  and  had  to 
make  his  way  merely  through  gates  of  iron  and  brass,  and  walls 
of  adamant,  to  the  castle  keep,  where  the  lady  of  his  heart  was 
confined,  —  all  which  he  achieved  as  easily  as  a  man  would  carve 
his  way  to  the  center  of  a  Christmas  pie,  and  then  the  lady  gave 
him  her  hand  as  a  matter  of  course.  Ichabod,  on  the  contrary, 
had  to  win  his  way  to  the  heart  of  a  country  coquette,  beset  with 
a  labyrinth  of  whims  and  caprices,  which  were  forever  present- 
ing new  difficulties  and  impediments  ;  and  he  had  to  encounter  a 
host  of  fearful  adversaries  of  real  flesh  and  blood,  the  numerous 
rustic  admirers,  who  beset  every  portal  to  her  heart,  keeping  a 
watchful  and  angry  eye  upon  each  other,  but  ready  to  fly  out  in 
the  common  cause  against  any  new  competitor. 

Among  these  the  most  formidable  was  a  burly,  roaring,  roys- 
tering  blade,  of  the  name  of  Abraham,  or,  according  to  the  Dutch 
abbreviation,  Brom  Van  Brunt,  the  hero  of  the  country  round, 
which  rang  with  his  feats  of  strength  and  hardihood.  He  was 
broad-shouldered  and  double-jointed,  with  short,  curly  black  hair, 
and  a  bluff  but  not  unpleasant  countenance,  having  a  mingled  air 
of  fun  and  arrogance.  From  his  Herculean  frame  and  great  pow- 
ers of  limb,  he  had  received  the  nickname  of  "  Brom  Bones,"  by 
which  he  was  universally  known.  He  was  famed  for  great  knowl- 
edge and  skill  in  horsemanship,  being  as  dexterous  on  horseback 
as  a  Tartar.2  He  was  foremost  at  all  races  and  cock-fights,  and, 
with  the  ascendency  which  bodily  strength  always  acquires  in 
rustic  life,  was  the  umpire  in  all  disputes,  setting  his  hat  on  one 
side,  and  giving  his  decisions  with  an  air  and  tone  that  admitted 
of  no  gainsay  or  appeal.  He  was  always  ready  for  either  a  fight 
or  a  frolic ;  had  more  mischief  than  ill  will  in  his  composition ; 
and,  with  all  his  overbearing  roughness,  there  was  a  strong  dash 

1  A  knight  who  wandered  in  search  of  adventure. 

2  The  Tartars  were  a  nomadic  tribe  of  Central  Asia,  noted  for  their  fine 
horsemanship. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  109 

of  waggish  good-humor  at  bottom.  He  had  three  or  four  boon 
companions  of  his  own  stamp,  who  regarded  him  as  their  model, 
and  at  the  head  of  whom  he  scoured  the  country,  attending  every 
scene  of  feud  or  merriment  for  miles  around.  In  cold  weather 
he  was  distinguished  by  a  fur  cap,  surmounted  with  a  flaunting 
fox's  tail ;  and  when  the  folks  at  a  country  gathering  descried 
this  well-known  crest  at  a  distance,  whisking  about  among  a 
squad  of  hard  riders,  they  always  stood  by  for  a  squall.  Some- 
times his  crew  would  be  heard  dashing  along  past  the  farmhouses 
at  midnight,  with  whoop  and  halloo,  like  a  troop  of  Don  Cos- 
sacks ; l  and  the  old  dames,  startled  out  of  their  sleep,  would 
listen  for  a  moment  till  the  .hurry-scurry  had  clattered  by,  and 
then  exclaim,  "  Ay,  there  goes  Brom  Bones  and  his  gang! "  The 
neighbors  looked  upon  him  with  a  mixture  of  awe,  admiration, 
and  good  will,  and,  when  any  madcap  prank  or  rustic  brawl  oc- 
curred in  the  vicinity,  always  shook  their  heads,  and  warranted 
Brom  Bones  was  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

This  rantipole2  hero  had  for  some  time  singled  out  the  bloom- 
ing Katrina  for  the  object  of  his  uncouth  gallantries,  and  though 
his  amorous  toyings  were  something  like  the  gentle  caresses  and 
endearments  of  a  bear,  yet  it  was  whispered  that  she  did  not 
altogether  discourage  his  hopes.  Certain  it  is,  his  advances  were 
signals  for  rival  candidates  to  retire,  who  felt  no  inclination  to 
cross  a  lion  in  his  amours ;  insomuch,  that  when  his  horse  was 
seen  tied  to  Van  Tassel's  paling  on  a  Sunday  night,  —  a  sure  sign 
that  his  master  was  courting,  or,  as  it  is  termed,  "sparking," 
within,  —  all  other  suitors  passed  by  in  despair,  and  carried  the 
war  into  other  quarters. 

Such  was  the  formidable  rival  with  whom  Ichabod  Crane  had 
to  contend ;  and,  considering  all  things,  a  stouter  man  than  he 
would  have  shrunk  from  the  competition,  and  a  wiser  man  would 

1  The  Russian  tribes  who  settled  on  the  River  Don.     They  are  a  restless 
and  warlike  race.     They  form  a  first-rate  irregular  cavalry,  and  render  excel- 
lent service  as  scouts  and  skirmishers. 

2  Wild. 


no  IRVING. 

ha^ve  despaired.  He  had,  however,  a  happy  mixture  of  pliability 
and  perseverance  in  his  nature.  He  was  in  form  and  spirit  like 
a  supple-jack,  —  yielding,  but  tough;  though  he  bent,  he  never 
broke ;  and  though  he  bowed  beneath  the  slightest  pressure,  yet, 
the  moment  it  was  away  —  jerk!  he  was  as  erect,  and  carried  his 
head  as  high,  as  ever. 

To  have  taken  the  field  openly  against  his  rival  would  have 
been  madness ;  for  he  was  not  a  man  to  be  thwarted  in  his 
amours,  any  more  than  that  stormy  lover  Achilles.1  Ichabod, 
therefore,  made  his  advances  in  a  quiet  and  gently  insinuating 
manner.  Under  cover  of  his  character  of  singing-master,  he 
made  frequent  visits  at  the  farmhouse ;  not  that  he  had  anything 
to  apprehend  from  the  meddlesome  interference  of  parents, 
which  is  so  often  a  stumbling-block  in  the  path  of  lovers.  Bait 
Van  Tassel  was  an  easy,  indulgent  soul.  He  loved  his  daughter 
better  even  than  his  pipe,  and,  like  a  reasonable  man  and  an  ex- 
cellent father,  let  her  have  her  way  in  everything.  His  notable 
little  wife,  too,  had  enough  to  do  to  attend  to  her  housekeeping 
and  manage  the  poultry ;  for,  as  she  sagely  observed,  ducks  and 
geese  are  foolish  things,  and  must  be  looked  after,  but  girls  can 
take  care  of  themselves.  Thus,  while  the  busy  dame  bustled 
about  the  house,  or  plied  her  spinning-wheel  at  one  end  of  the 
piazza,  honest  Bait  would  sit  smoking  his  evening  pipe  at  the 
other,  watching  the  achievements  of  a  little  wooden  warrior,  who, 
armed  with  a  sword  in  each  hand,  was  most  valiantly  fighting  the 
wind  on  the  pinnacle  of  the  barn.  In  the  mean  time  Ichabod 
would  carry  on  his  suit  with  the  daughter  by  the  side  of  the 
spring  under  the  great  elm,  or  sauntering  along  in  the  twilight, 
that  hour  so  favorable  to  the  lover's  eloquence. 

1  A  famous  Greek  warrior  of  Homer's  Iliad.  Achilles,  in  a  dispute  about 
his  lady-love  Briseis,  becomes  angered  against  Agamemnon,  commander-in- 
chief  of  the  allied  Greeks  besieging  Troy  or  Ilion  (hence  the  name  "  Iliad  "), 
and  refuses  to  fight.  The  Trojans  prevail  for  a  time.  Patroclus,  Achilles' 
friend,  falls ;  and  Achilles  in  wrath  flies  to  battle,  kills  Hector  (chief  of  the 
Trojans),  and  turns  the  tide  of  battle  against  them. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  Ill 

I  profess  not  to  know  how  women's  hearts  are  wooed  and  won. 
To  me  they  have  always  been  matters  of  riddle  and  admiration. 
Some  seem  to  have  but  one  vulnerable  point,  or  door  of  access ; 
while  others  have  a  thousand  avenues,  and  may  be  captured  in  a 
thousand  different  ways.  It  is  a  great  triumph  of  skill  to  gain 
the  former,  but  a  still_  greater  proof  of  generalship  to  maintain 
possession  of  the  latter,  for  a  man  must  battle  for  his  fortress  at 
every  door  and  window.  He  who  wins  a  thousand  common 
hearts  is  therefore  entitled  to  some  renown ;  but  he  who  keeps 
undisputed  sway  over  the  heart  of  a  coquette  is  indeed  a  hero. 
Certain  it  is,  this  was  not  the  case  with  the  redoubtable  Brom 
Bones ;  and,  ffom  the  moment  Ichabod  Crane  made  his  ad- 
vances, the  interests  of  the  former  evidently  declined.  His  horse 
was  no  longer  seen  tied  at  the  palings  on  Sunday  nights,  and  a 
deadly  feud  gradually  arose  between  him  and  the  preceptor  of 
Sleepy  Hollow. 

Brom,  who  had  a  degree  of  rough  chivalry  in  his  nature,  would 
fain  have  carried  matters  to  open  warfare,  and  settled  their  pre- 
tensions to  the  lady  according  to  the  mode  of  those  most  concise 
and  simple  reasoners,  the  knights-errant  of  yore,  by  single  com- 
bat ;  but  Ichabod  was  too  conscious  of  the  superior  might  of  his 
adversary  to  enter  the  lists  against  him.  He  had  overheard  the 
boast  of  Bones,  that  he  would  "  double  the  schoolmaster  up  and 
put  him  on  a  shelf ;"  and  he  was  too  wary  to  give  him  an  oppor- 
tunity. There  was  something  extremely  provoking  in  this  obsti- 
nately pacific  system :  it  left  Brom  no  alternative  but  to  draw 
upon  the  funds  of  rustic  waggery  in  his  disposition,  and  to  play 
off  boorish  practical  jokes  upon  his  rival.  Ichabod  became  the 
object  of  whimsical  persecution  to  Bones  and  his  gang  of  rough 
riders.  They  harried  his  hitherto  peaceful  domains ;  smoked  out 
his  singing-school  by  stopping  up  the  chimney ;  broke  into  the 
schoolhouse  at  night,  in  spite  of  its  formidable  fastenings  of  withe 
and  window  stakes,  and  turned  everything  topsy-turvy :  so  that 
the  poor  schoolmaster  began  to  think  all  the  witches  in  the  coun- 
try held  their  meetings  there.  But,  what  was  still  more  annoying, 


112  IRVING. 

Brom  took  all  opportunities  of  turning  him  into  ridicule  in  pres- 
ence of  his  mistress,  and  had  a  scoundrel  dog  whom  he  taught  to 
whine  in  the  most  ludicrous  manner,  and  introduced  as  a  rival  of 
Ichabod's  to  instruct  her  in  psalmody. 

In  this  way  matters  went  on  for  some  time,  without  producing 
any  material  effect  on  the  relative  situations  of  the  contending 
powers.  On  a  fine  autumnal  afternoon,  Ichabod,  in  pensive 
mood,  sat  enthroned  on  the  lofty  stool  from  whence  he  usually 
watched  all  the  concerns  of  his  little  literary  realm.  In  his  hand 
he  swayed  a  ferule,  that  scepter  of  despotic  power ;  the  birch  of 
justice  reposed  on  three  nails  behind  the  throne,  a  constant  terror 
to  evil  doers ;  while  on  the  desk  before  him  might  be  seen  sun- 
dry contraband  articles  and  prohibited  weapons,  detected  upon 
the  persons  of  idle  urchins,  such  as  half-munched  apples,  pop- 
guns, whirligigs,  fly-cages,  and  whole  legions  of  rampant  little  paper 
game-cocks.  Apparently  there  had  been  some  appalling  act  of 
justice  recently  inflicted ;  for  his  scholars  were  all  busily  intent 
upon  their  books,  or  slyly  whispering  behind  them  with  one  eye 
kept  upon  the  master,  and  a  kind  of  buzzing  stillness  reigned 
throughout  the  schoolroom.  It  was  suddenly  interrupted  by  the 
appearance  of  a  negro,  in  tow-cloth  jacket  and  trousers,  a  round- 
crowned  fragment  of  a  hat,  like  the  cap  of  Mercury,1  and 
mounted  on  the  back  of  a  ragged,  wild,  half-broken  colt,  which 
he  managed  with  a  rope  by  way  of  halter.  He  came  clattering 
up  to  the  school  door  with  an  invitation  to  Ichabod  to  attend  a 
merry-making,  or  "quilting  frolic,"  to  be  held  that  evening  at 
Mynheer  Van  Tassel's ;  and  having  delivered  his  message  with 
that  air  of  importance,  and  effort  at  fine  language,  which  a  negro 
is  apt  to  display  on  petty  embassies  of  the  kind,  he  dashed  over 
the  brook,  and  was  seen  scampering  away  up  the  hollow,  full  of 
the  importance  and  hurry  of  his  mission. 

All  was  now  bustle  and  hubbub  in  the  late  quiet  schoolroom. 
The  scholars  were  hurried  through  their  lessons  without  stopping 

1  The  Roman  god  who  presided  over  barter,  trade,  and  all  commercial 
dealings. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  113 

at  trifles.  Those  who  were  nimble  skipped  over  half  with  im- 
punity ;  and  those  who  were  tardy  had  a  smart  application  now 
and  then  in  the  rear,  to  quicken  their  speed,  or  help  them  over  a 
tall  word.  Books  were  flung  aside  without  being  put  away  on 
the  shelves ;  inkstands  were  overturned,  benches  thrown  down ; 
and  the  whole  school  was  turned  loose  an  hour  before  the  usual 
time,  bursting  forth  like  a  legion  of  young  imps,  yelping  and 
racketing  about  the  green,  in  joy  at  their  early  emancipation. 

The  gallant  Ichabod  now  spent  at  least  an  extra  half  hour  at 
his  toilet,  brushing  and  furbishing  up  his  best  and  indeed  only  suit 
of  rusty  black,  and  arranging  his  looks  by  a  bit  of  broken  look- 
ing-glass that  hung  up  in  the  schoolhouse.  That  he  might  make 
his  appearance  before  his  mistress  in  the  true  style  of  a  cavalier, 
he  borrowed  a  horse  from  the  farmer  with  whom  he  was  domi- 
ciliated,  a  choleric  old  Dutchman  of  the  name  of  Hans  Van  Rip- 
per, and,  thus  gallantly  mounted,  issued  forth,  like  a  knight-errant 
in  quest  of  adventures.  But 'it  is  meet  I  should,  in  the  true  spirit 
of  romantic  story,  give  some  account  of  the  looks  and  equipments 
of  my  hero  and  his  steed.  The  animal  he  bestrode  was  a  broken- 
down  plow-horse,  that  had  outlived  almost  everything  but  his 
viciousness.  He  was  gaunt  and  shagged,  with  a  ewe  neck,  and 
a  head  like  a  hammer.  His  rusty  mane  and  tail  were  tangled 
and  knotted  with  burrs.  One  eye  had  lost  its  pupil,  and  was 
glaring  and  spectral,  but  the  other  had  the  gleam  of  a  genuine 
devil  in  it.  Still  he  must  have  had  fire  and  mettle  in  his  day,  if 
we  may  judge  from  his  name,  which  was  Gunpowder.  He  had, 
in  fact,  been  a  favorite  steed  of  his  master's,  the  choleric  Van 
Ripper,  who  was  a  furious  rider,  and  had  infused,  very  probably, 
some  of  his  own  spirit  into  the  animal ;  for,  old  and  broken-down 
as  he  looked,  there  was  more  of  the  lurking  devil  in  him  than  in 
any  young  filly  in  the  country. 

Ichabod  was  a  suitable  figure  for  such  a  steed.     He  rode  with 

short  stirrups,  which  brought  his  knees  nearly  up  to  the  pommel 

of  the  saddle  ;  his  sharp  elbows  stuck  out  like  grasshoppers' ;  he 

carried  his  whip  perpendicularly  in  his  hand,  like  a  scepter ;  and, 

8 


114  IRVING. 

as  the  horse  jogged  on,  the  motion  of  his  arms  was  not  unlike  the 
flapping  of  a  pair  of  wings.  A  small  wool  hat  rested  on  the  top 
of  his  nose,  for  so  his  scanty  strip  of  forehead  might  be  called ; 
and  the  skirts  of  his  black  coat  fluttered  out  almost  to  the  horse's 
tail.  Such  was  the  appearance  of  Ichabod  and  his  steed,  as  they 
shambled  out  of  the  gate  of  Hans  Van  Ripper ;  and  it  was  alto- 
gether such  an  apparition  as  is  seldom  to  be  met  with  in  broad 
daylight. 

It  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  fine  autumnal  day.  The  sky  was 
clear  and  serene,  and  nature  wore  that  rich  and  golden  livery 
which  we  always  associate  with  the  idea  of  abundance.  The 
forests  had  put  on  their  sober  brown  and  yellow,  while  some 
trees  of  the  tenderer  kind  had  been  nipped  by  the  frost  into  bril- 
liant dyes  of  orange,  purple,  and  scarlet.  Streaming  files  of  wild 
ducks  began  to  make  their  appearance  high  in  the  air.  The  bark 
of  the  squirrel  might  be  heard  from  the  groves  of  beech  and  hick- 
ory nuts,  and  the  pensive  whistle  of  the  quail  at  intervals  from 
the  neighboring  stubble-field. 

The  small  birds  were  taking  their  farewell  banquets.  In  the 
fullness  of  their  revelry,  they  fluttered,  chirping  and  frolicking, 
from  bush  to  bush,  and  tree  to  tree,  capricious  from  the  very 
profusion  and  variety  around  them.  There  was  the  honest  cock- 
robin,  the  favorite  game  of  stripling  sportsmen,  with  its  loud, 
querulous  note;  and  the  twittering  blackbirds  flying  in  sable 
clouds;  and  the  golden- winged  woodpecker,  with  his  crimson 
crest,  his  broad,  black  gorget,  and  splendid  plumage ;  and  the 
cedar  bird,  with  its  red-tipped  wings  and  yellow-tipped  tail,  and 
its  little  monteiro  cap1  of  feathers;  and  the  blue  jay,  that  noisy 
coxcomb,  in  his  gay,  light-blue  coat  and  white  underclothes, 
screaming  and  chattering,  nodding  and  bobbing  and  bowing, 
and  pretending  to  be  on  good  terms  with  every  songster  of  the 
grove. 

1  Montero  cap  (Spanish,  montera),  a  kind  of  cap,  originally  a  hunting- 
cap;  from  montero  ("  a  huntsman").  It  has  a  spherical  crown,  and  a  flap 
round  it  that  may  be  drawn  down  over  the  ears. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  115 

As  Ichabod  jogged  slowly  on  his  way,  his  eye,  ever  open  to 
every  symptom  of  culinary  abundance,  ranged  with  delight  over 
the  treasures  of  jolly  autumn.  On  all  sides  he  beheld  vast  store 
of  apples,  —  some  hanging  in  oppressive  opulence  on  the  trees, 
some  gathered  into  baskets  and  barrels  for  the  market,  others 
heaped  up  in  rich  piles  for  trie  cider-press.  Farther  on  he  be- 
held great  fields  of  Indian  corn,  with  its  golden  ears  peeping 
from  their  leafy  coverts,  and  holding  out  the  promise  of  cakes 
and  hasty  pudding;  and  the  yellow  pumpkins  lying  beneath 
them,  turning  up  their  fair,  round  bellies  to  the  sun,  and  giving 
ample  prospects  of  the  most  luxurious  of  pies;  and  anon  he 
passed  the  fragrant  buckwheat  fields,  breathing  the  odor  of  the 
beehive ;  and  as  he  beheld  them,  soft  anticipations  stole  over  his 
mind  of  dainty  slapjacks,  well  buttered,  and  garnished  with  honey 
or  treacle,  by  the  delicate  little  dimpled  hand  of  Katrina  Van 
Tassel. 

Thus  feeding  his  mind  with  many  sweet  thoughts  and  "  sugared 
suppositions,"  he  journeyed  along  the  sides  of  a  range  of  hills 
which  look  out  upon  some  of  the  goodliest  scenes  of  the  mighty 
Hudson.  The  sun  gradually  wheeled  his  broad  disk  down  into 
the  west.  The  wide  bosom  of  the  Tappan  Zee  lay  motionless  and 
glassy,  excepting  that  here  and  there  a  gentle  undulation  waved, 
and  prolonged  the  blue  shadow  of  the  distant  mountain.  A  few 
amber  clouds  floated  in  the  sky,  without  a  breath  of  air  to  move 
them.  The  horizon  was  of  a  fine,  golden  tint,  changing  grad- 
ually into  a  pure  apple-green,  and  from  that  into  the  deep-blue 
of  the  mid-heaven.  A  slanting  ray  lingered  on  the  woody  crests 
of  the  precipices  that  overhung  some  parts  of  the  river,  giving 
greater  depth  to  the  dark  gray  and  purple  of  their  rocky  sides. 
A  sloop  was  loitering  in  the  distance,  dropping  slowly  down  with 
the  tide,  her  sail  hanging  uselessly  against  the  mast ;  and,  as  the 
reflection  of  the  sky  gleamed  along  the  still  water,  it  seemed  as 
if  the  vessel  was  suspended  in  the  air. 

It  was  toward  evening  that  Ichabod  arrived  at  the  castle  of 
the  Herr  Van  Tassel,  which  he  found  thronged  with  the  pride 


Ii6  IRVING. 

and  flower  of  the  adjacent  country,  —  old  farmers,  a  spare,  leath- 
ern-faced race,  in  homespun  coats  and  breeches,  blue  stockings, 
huge  shoes,  and  magnificent  pewter  buckles ;  their  brisk,  withered 
little  dames,  in  close  crimped  caps,  long-waisted  gowns,  home- 
spun petticoats,  with  scissors  and  pincushions,  and  gay  calico 
pockets  hanging  on  the  outside ;  buxom  lasses,  almost  as  anti- 
quated as  their  mothers,  excepting  where  a  straw  hat,  a  fine 
ribbon,  or  perhaps  a  white  frock,  gave  symptoms  of  city  inno- 
vations ;  the  sons,  in  short,  square-skirted  coats  with  rows  of 
stupendous  brass  buttons,  and  their  hair  generally  queued  in  the 
fashion  of  the  times,  especially  if  they  could  procure  an  eel-skin 
for  the  purpose,  it  being  esteemed  throughout  the  country  as  a 
potent  nourisher  and  strengthener  of  the  hair. 

Brom  Bones,  however,  was  the  hero  of  the  scene,  having  come 
to  the  gathering  on  his  favorite  steed  Daredevil,  —  a  creature, 
like  himself,  full  of  mettle  and  mischief,  and  which  no  one  but 
himself  could  manage.  He  was,  in  fact,  noted  for  preferring 
vicious  animals,  given  to  all  kinds  of  tricks,  which  kept  the  rider 
in  constant  risk  of  his  neck ;  for  he  held  a  tractable,  well-broken 
horse  as  unworthy  of  a  lad  of  spirit. 

Fain  would  I  pause  to  dwell  upon  the  world  of  charms  that 
burst  upon  the  enraptured  gaze  of  my  he'ro,  as  he  entered  the 
state  parlor  of  Van  Tassel's  mansion ;  not  those  of  the  bevy  of 
buxom  lasses,  with  their  luxurious  display  of  red  and  white,  but 
the  ample  charms  of  a  genuine  Dutch  country  tea-table,  in  the 
sumptuous  time  of  autumn.  Such  heaped-up  platters  of  cakes 
of  various  and  almost  indescribable  kinds,  known  only  to  experi- 
enced Dutch  housewives!  There  was  the  doughty  doughnut, 
the  tender  oly-koek,1  and  the  crisp  and  crumbling  cruller; 
sweet  cakes  and  short  cakes,  ginger  cakes  and  honey  cakes,  and 
the  whole  family  of  cakes ;  and  then  there  were  apple  pies  and 
peach  pies  and  pumpkin  pies ;  besides  slices  of  ham  and  smoked 
beef ;  and,  moreover,  delectable  dishes  of  preserved  plums,  and 

1  A  kind  of  Dutch  cake,  made  of  dough  sweetened,  and  fried  in  lard. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  117 

peaches,  and  pears,  and  quinces ;  not  to  mention  broiled  shad 
and  roasted  chickens ;  together  with  bowls  of  milk  and  cream ; 
all  mingled  higgledy-piggledy,  pretty  much  as  I  have  enumerated 
them,  with  the  motherly  teapot  sending  up  its  clouds  of  vapor 
from  the  midst  —  Heaven  bless  the  mark!  I  want  breath  and 
time  to  discuss  this  banquet  as  it  deserves,  and  am  too  eager  to 
get  on  with  my  story.  Happily,  Ichabod  Crane  was  not  in  so 
great  a  hurry  as  his  historian,  but  did  ample  justice  to  every 
dainty. 

He  was  a  kind  and  thankful  creature,  whose  heart  dilated  in 
proportion  as  his  skin  was  filled  with  good  cheer,  and  whose 
spirits  rose  with  eating  as  some  men's  do  with  drink.  He  could 
not  help,  too,  rolling  his  large  eyes  round  him  as  he  ate,  and 
chuckling  with  the  possibility  that  he  might  one  day  be  lord  of 
all  this  scene  of  almost  unimaginable  luxury  and  splendor.  Then, 
he  thought,  how  soon  he'd  turn  his  back  upon  the  old  school- 
house  ;  snap  his  fingers  in  the  face  of  Hans  Van  Ripper,  and 
every  other  niggardly  patron ;  and  kick  any  itinerant  pedagogue 
out  of  doors  that  should  dare  to  call  him  comrade ! 

Old  Baltus  Van  Tassel  moved  about  among  his  guests  with  a 
face  dilated  with  content  and  good  humor,  round  and  jolly  as 
the  harvest  moon.  His  hospitable  attentions  were  brief  but  ex- 
pressive, being  confined  to  a  shake  of  the  hand,  a  slap  on  the 
shoulder,  a  loud  laugh,  and  a  pressing  invitation  to  "  fall  to,  and 
help  themselves." 

And  now  the  sound  of  the  music  from  the  common  room,  or 
hall,  summoned  to  the  dance.  The  musician  was  an  olo^  gray- 
headed  negro,  who  had  been  the  itinerant  orchestra  of  the  neigh- 
borhood for  more  than  half  a  century.  His  instrument  was  as 
old  and  battered  as  himself.  The  greater  part  of  the  time  he 
scraped  away  on  two  or  three  strings,  accompanying  every  move- 
ment of  the  bow  with  a  motion  of  the  head,  bowing  almost  to  the 
ground,  and  stamping  with  his  foot  whenever  a  fresh  couple  were 
to  start. 

Ichabod  prided  himself  upon  his  dancing  as  much  as  upon  his 


Il8  IRVING. 

vocal  powers.  Not  a  limb,  not  a  fiber  about  him,  was  idle ;  and 
to  have  seen  his  loosely  hung  frame  in  full  motion,  and  clattering 
about  the  room,  you  would  have  thought  St.  Vitus 1  himself,  that 
blessed  patron  of  the  dance,  was  figuring  before  you  in  person. 
He  was  the  admiration  of  all  the  negroes,  who,  having  gathered, 
of  all  ages  and  sizes,  from  the  farm  and  the  neighborhood,  stood 
forming  a  pyramid  of  shining  black  faces  at  every  door  and  win- 
dow, gazing  with  delight  at  the  scene,  rolling  their  white  eyeballs, 
and  showing  grinning  rows  of  ivory  from  ear  to  ear.  How  could 
the  flogger  of  urchins  be  otherwise  than  animated  and  joyous? 
The  lady  of  his  heart  was  his  partner  in  the  dance,  and  smiling 
graciously  in  reply  to  all  his  amorous  oglings ;  while  Brom  Bones, 
sorely  smitten  with  love  and  jealousy,  sat  brooding  by  himself  in 
one  corner. 

When  the  dance  was  at  an  end,  Ichabod  was  attracted  to  a 
knot  of  the  sager  folks,  who,  with  old  Van  Tassel,  sat  smoking 
at  one  end  of  the  piazza.,  gossiping  over  former  times,  and 
drawling  out  long  stories  about  the  war. 

This  neighborhood,  at  the  time  of  which  I  am  speaking,  was 
one  of  those  highly  favored  places  which  abound  with  chronicle 
and  great  men.  The  British  and  American  line  had  run  near 
it  during  the  war :  it  had  therefore  been  the  scene  of  marauding, 
and  infested  with  refugees,  cowboys,  and  all  kinds  of  border 
chivalry.  Just  sufficient  time  had  elapsed  to  enable  each  story- 
teller to  dress  up  his  tale  with  a  little  becoming  fiction,  and,  in 
the  indistinctness  of  his  recollection,  to  make  himself  the  hero  of 
every  exploit. 

There  was  the  story  of  Doffue  Martling,  a  large,  blue-bearded 
Dutchman,  who  had  nearly  taken  a  British  frigate  with  an  old 
iron  nine-pounder  from  a  mud  breastwork,  only  that  his  gun  burst 
at  the  sixth  discharge.  And  there  was  an  old  gentleman  who 

1  The  patron  saint  of  dancers  and  actors,  and  invoked  against  the  disease 
known  as  "  St.  Vitus's  dance."  He  is  the  patron  of  Saxony,  Bohemia,  and 
Sicily,  and  throughout  Germany  ranks  as  one  of  the  fourteen  "  Nothelfer" 
of  the  Church. 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK.  119 

shall  be  nameless,  being  too  rich  a  mynheer1  to  be  lightly  men- 
tioned, who  in  the  battle  of  Whiteplains,2  being  an  excellent 
master  of  defense,  parried  a  musket-ball  with  a  small  sword,  in- 
somuch that  he.  absolutely  felt  it  whiz  round  the  blade,  and  glance 
off  at  the  hilt,  in  proof  of  which  he  was  ready  at  any  time  to 
show  the  sword,  with  the  hilt  a  little  bent.  There  were  several 
more  that  had  been  equally  great  in  the  field,  not  one  of  whom 
but  was  persuaded  that  he  had  a  considerable  hand  in  bringing 
the  war  to  a  happy  termination. 

But  all  these  were  nothing  to  the  tales  of  ghosts  and  appari- 
tions that  succeeded.  The  neighborhood  is  rich  in  legendary 
treasures  of  the  kind.  Local  tales  and  superstitions  thrive  best 
in  these  skeltered,  long-settled  retreats,  but  are  trampled  under 
foot  by  the  shifting  throng  that  forms  the  population  of  most 
of  our  country  places.  Besides,  there  is  no  encouragement  for 
ghosts  in  most  of  our  villages,  for  they  have  scarcely  had  time  to 
finish  their  first  nap,  and  turn  themselves  in  their  graves,  before 
their  surviving  friends  have  traveled  away  from  the  neighborhood  ; 
so  that,  when  they  turn  out  at  night  to  walk  their  rounds,  they 
have  no  acquaintance  left  to  call  upon.  This  is,  perhaps,  the 
reason  why  we  so  seldom  hear  of  ghosts,  except  in  our  long- 
established  Dutch  communities. 

The  immediate  cause,  however,  of  the  prevalence  of  supernat- 
ural stories  in  these  parts,  was  doubtless  owing  to  the  vicinity  of 
Sleepy  Hollow.  There  was  a  contagion  in  the  very  air  that  blew 
from  that  haunted  region :  it  breathed  forth  an  atmosphere  of 
dreams  and  fancies  infecting  all  the  land.  Several  of  the  Sleepy 
Hollow  people  were  present  at  Van  Tassel's,  and,  as  usual,  were 
doling  out  their  wild  and  wonderful  legends.  Many  dismal  tales 

1  From  the  Dutch  mijn  heer,  equivalent  to  the  German  mein  Herr  ("  my 
master,"  "my  lord"),  our  "  sir"  or  "  Mr.,"  a  term  of  respectful  address 
employed  by  the  Dutch ;  hence  also  a  Dutchman. 

2  At  Whiteplains,  twenty-five  miles  northeast  of  New  York,  the  Amer- 
icans were  driven  back  by  the  British  under  Gen.  Howe,  and  compelled  to 
withdraw  to  New  Jersey,  October,  1776. 


120  IRVING. 

were  told  about  funeral  trains,  and  mourning  cries  and  wailings, 
heard  and  seen  about  the  great  tree  where  the  unfortunate  Major 
Andr61  was  taken,  and  which  stood  in  the  neighborhood.  Some 
mention  was  made  also  of  the  woman  in  white  that  haunted 
the  dark  glen  at  Raven  Rock,  and  was  often  heard  to  shriek 
on  winter  nights  before  a  storm,  having  perished  there  in  the 
snow.  The  chief  part  of  the  stories,  however,  turned  upon  the 
favorite  specter  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  the  headless  horseman,  who 
had  been  heard  several  times  of  late,  patrolling  the  country,  and, 
it  was  said,  tethered  his  horse  nightly  among  the  graves  in  the 
churchyard. 

The  sequestered  situation  of  this  church  seems  always  to  have 
made  it  a  favorite  haunt  of  troubled  spirits.  It  stands  on  a  knoll, 
surrounded  by  locust-trees  and  lofty  elms,  from  among  which  its 
decent,  whitewashed  walls  shine  modestly  forth,  like  Christian 
purity  beaming  through  the  shades  of  retirement.  A  gentle 
slope  descends  from  it  to  a  silver  sheet  of  water,  bordered  by 
high  trees,  between  which  peeps  may  be  caught  at  the  blue  hills 
of  the  Hudson.  To  look  upon  its  grass-grown  yard,  where  the 
sunbeams  seem  to  sleep  so  quietly,  one  would  think  that  there, 
at  least,  the  dead  might  rest  in  peace.  On  one  side  of  the  church 
extends  a  wide,  woody  dell,  along  which  raves  a  large  brook 
among  broken  rocks  and  trunks  of  fallen  trees.  Over  a  deep 
black  part  of  the  stream,  not  far  from  the  church,  was  formerly 
thrown  a  wooden  bridge.  The  road  that  led  to  it,  and  the  bridge 
itself,  were  thickly  shaded  by  overhanging  trees,  which  cast  a 
gloom  about  it,  even  in  the  daytime,  but  occasioned  a  fearful 

1  John  Andre"  was  born  in  London  in  1751.  He  became  an  adjutant- 
general  in  the  British  army  of  the  American  Revolution.  Benedict  Arnold, 
who  commanded  the  American  fortress  of  West  Point,  made  arrangements  to 
betray  that  place  into  the  hands  of  the  British  general  Sir  Henry  Clinton. 
Andre"  was  associated  with  Arnold  in  this  plot,  which  was  frustrated  and  de- 
feated by  the  capture  of  Andre",  who  had  been  sent  by  Arnold  with  letters. 
Andre"  was  tried  by  a  court-martial,  and  condemned  to  be  hung  as  a  spy.  He 
was  executed  at  Tappantown,  Oct.  2,  1780.  In  1821  his  remains  were  trans- 
ferred to  England,  and  interred  in  Westminster  Abbey. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  121 

darkness  at  night.  Such  was  one  of  the  favorite  haunts  of  the 
headless  horseman,  and  the  place  where  he  was  most  frequently 
encountered.  The  tale  was  told  of  old  Brouwer,  a  most  heretical 
disbeliever  in  ghosts,  —  how  he  met  the  horseman  returning  from 
his  foray  into  Sleepy  Hollow,  and  was  obliged  to  get  up  behind 
him;  how  they  galloped  over  bush  and  brake,  over  hill  and 
swamp,  until  they  reached  the  bridge,  when  the  horseman  sud- 
denly turned  into  a  skeleton,  threw  old  Brouwer  into  the  brook, 
and  sprang  away  over  the  tree-tops  with  a  clap  of  thunder. 

This  story  was  immediately  matched  by  a  thrice  marvelous 
adventure  of  Brom  Bones,  who  made  light  of  the  Galloping  Hes- 
sian as  an  arrant  jockey.  He  affirmed,  that,  on  returning  one 
night  from  the  neighboring  village  of  Sing  Sing,  he  had  been 
overtaken  by  this  midnight  trooper ;  that  he  had  offered  to  race 
with  him  for  a  bowl  of  punch,  and  should  have  won  it,  too  (for 
Daredevil  beat  the  goblin  horse  all  hollow),  but,  just  as  they  came 
to  the  church  bridge,  the  Hessian  bolted,  and  vanished  in  a  flash 
of  fire. 

All  these  tales  told  in  that  drowsy  undertone  with  which  .men 
talk  in  the  dark,  the  countenances  of  the  listeners  only  now  and 
then  receiving  a  casual  gleam  from  the  glare  of  a  pipe,  sank  deep 
in  the  mind  of  Ichabod.  He  repaid  them  in  kind  with  large 
extracts  from  his  invaluable  author  Cotton  Mather,  and  added 
many  marvelous  events  that  had  taken  place  in  his  native  State 
of  Connecticut,  and  fearful  sights  which  he  had  seen  in  his 
nightly  walks  about  Sleepy  Hollow. 

The  revel  now  gradually  broke  up.  The  old  farmers  gathered 
together  their  families  in  their  wagons,  and  were  heard  for  some 
time  rattling  along  the  hollow  roads,  and  over  the  distant  hills. 
Some  of  the  damsels  mounted  on  pillions l  behind  their  favorite 
swains ;  and  their  light-hearted  laughter,  mingling  with  the  clat- 
ter of  hoofs,  echoed  along  the  silent  woodlands,  sounding  fainter 
and  fainter  until  they  gradually  died  away,  and  the  late  scene  of 

1  A  cushion  adjusted  to  a  saddle  at  the  back,  serving  as  a  kind  of  seat  for 
another  person  riding  behind. 


122  IRVING. 

noise  and  frolic  was  all  silent  and  deserted.  Ichabod  only  lin- 
gered behind,  according  to  the  custom  of  country  lovers,  to  have 
a  tete-a-tete  with  the  heiress,  fully  convinced  that  he  was  now  on 
the  high  road  to  success.  What  passed  at  this  interview  I  will 
not  pretend  to  say,  for  in  fact  I  do  not  know.  Something,  how- 
ever, I  fear  me,  must  have  gone  wrong ;  for  he  certainly  sallied 
forth,  after  no  very  great  interval,  with  an  air  quite  desolate  and 
chopfallen.  Oh  these  women,  these  women!  Could  that  girl 
have  been  playing  off  any  of  her  coquettish  tricks?  Was  her 
encouragement  of  the  poor  pedagogue  all  a  mere  sham  to  secure 
her  conquest  of  his  rival?  Heaven  only  knows,  not  I!  Let  it 
suffice  to  say,  Ichabod  stole  forth  with  the  air  of  one  who  had 
been  sacking  a  hen-roost  rather  than  a  fair  lady's  heart.  With- 
out looking  to  the  right  or  left  to  notice  the  scene  of  rural  wealth 
on  which  he  had  so  often  gloated,  he  went  straight  to  the  stable, 
and,  with  several  hearty  cuffs  and  kicks,  roused  his  steed  most 
uncourteously  from  the  comfortable  quarters  in  which  he  was 
soundly  sleeping,  dreaming  of  mountains  of  corn  and  oats,  and 
whole  valleys  of  timothy  and  clover. 

It  was  the  very  witching  time  of  night,  that  Ichabod,  heavy 
hearted  and  crestfallen,  pursued  his  travel  homewards  along  the 
sides  of  the  lofty  hills  which  rise  above  Tarrytown,  and  which 
he  had  traversed  so  cheerily  in  the  afternoon.  The  hour  was  as 
dismal  as  himself.  Far  below  him  the  Tappan  Zee  spread  its 
dusky  and  indistinct  waste  of  waters,  with  here  and  there  the  tall 
mast  of  a  sloop  riding  quietly  at  anchor  under  the  land.  In  the 
dead  hush  of  midnight  he  could  even  hear  the  barking  of  the 
watch-dog  from  the  opposite  shore  of  the  Hudson,  but  it  was  so 
vague  and  faint  as  only  to  give  an  idea  of  his  distance  from  this 
faithful  companion  of  man.  Now  and  then,  too,  the  long-drawn 
crowing  of  a  cock,  accidentally  awakened,  would  sound .  far,  far 
off,  from  some  farmhouse  away  among  the  hills ;  but  it  was  like 
a  dreaming  sound  in  his  ear.  No  signs  of  life  occurred  near 
him,  but  occasionally  the  melancholy  chirp  of  a  cricket,  or 
perhaps  the  guttural  twang  of  a  bull-frog  from  a  neighboring 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  123 

marsh,  as  if  sleeping  uncomfortably,  and  turning  suddenly  in 
his  bed. 

All  the  stories  of  ghosts  and  goblins  that  he  had  heard  in  the 
afternoon,  now  came  crowding  upon  his  recollection.  The  night 
grew  darker  and  darker.  The  stars  seemed  to  sink  deeper  in  the 
sky,  and  driving  clouds  occasionally  hid  them  from  his  sight. 
He  had  never  felt  so  lonely  and  dismal.  He  was,  moreover,  ap- 
proaching the  very  place  where  many  of  the  scenes  of  the  ghost 
stories  had  been  laid.  In  the  center  of  the  road  stood  an  enor- 
mous tulip-tree,  which  towered  like  a  giant  above  all  the  other 
trees  of  the  neighborhood,  and  formed  a  kind  of  landmark.  Its. 
limbs  were  gnarled  and  fantastic,  large  enough  to  form  trunks 
for  ordinary  trees,  twisting  down  almost  to  the  earth,  and  rising 
again  into  the  air.  It  was  connected  with  the  tragical  story  of 
the  unfortunate  Andre  who  had  been  taken  prisoner  hard  by,  and 
was  universally  known  by  the  name  of  Major  Andre's  tree.  The 
common  people  regarded  it  with  a  mixture  of  respect  and  super- 
stition, partly  out  of  sympathy  for  the  fate  of  its  ill-starred  name- 
sake, and  partly  from  the  tales  of  strange  sights  and  doleful 
lamentations  told  concerning  it. 

As  Ichabod  approached  this  fearful  tree,  he  began  to  whistle. 
He  thought  his  whistle  was  answered :  it  was  but  a  blast  sweep- 
ing sharply  through  the  dry  branches.  As  he  approached  a  little 
nearer,  he  thought  he  saw  something  white  hanging  in  the  midst 
of  the  tree.  He  paused,  and  ceased  whistling,  but,  on  looking 
more  narrowly,  perceived  that  it  was  a  place  where  the  tree  had 
been  scathed  by  lightning,  and  the  white  wood  laid  bare.  Sud- 
denly he  heard  a  groan.  His  teeth  chattered,  and  his  knees 
smote  against  the  saddle.  It  was  but  the  rubbing  of  one  huge 
bough  upon  another,  as  they  were  swayed  about  by  the  breeze. 
He  passed  the  tree  in  safety,  but  new  perils  lay  before  him. 

About  two  hundred  yards  from  the  tree  a  small  brook  crossed 
the  road,  and  ran  into  a  marshy  and  thickly  wooded  glen,  known 
by  the  name  of  Wiley's  Swamp.  A  few  rough  logs  laid  side  by 
side  served  for  a  bridge  over  thii  stream.  On  that  aide  of  the 


124  IRVING. 

road  where  the  brook  entered  the  wood,  a  group  of  oaks  and 
chestnuts,  matted  thick  with  wild  grape-vines,  threw  a  cavernous 
gloom  over  it.  To  pass  this  bridge  was  the  severest  trial.  It 
was  at  this  identical  spot  that  the  unfortunate  Andre  was  cap- 
tured, and  under  the  covert  of  those  chestnuts  and  vines  were  the 
sturdy  yeomen  concealed  who  surprised  him.  This  has  ever  since 
been  considered  a  haunted  stream,  and  fearful  are  the  feelings  of 
the  schoolboy  who  has  to  pass  it  alone  after  dark. 
v  As  he  approached  the  stream  his  heart  began  to  thump.  He 
summoned  up,  however,  all  his  resolution,  gave  his  horse  half  a 
score  of  kicks  in  the  ribs,  and  attempted  to  dash  briskly  across 
the  bridge ;  but,  instead  of  starting  forward,  the  perverse  old 
animal  made  a  lateral  movement,  and  ran  broadside  against  the 
fence.  Ichabod,  whose  fears  increased  with  the  delay,  jerked 
the  reins  on  the  other  side,  and  kicked  lustily  with  the  contrary- 
foot.  It  was  all  in  vain.  His  steed  started,  it  is  true,  but  it  was 
only  to  plunge  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  road  into  a  thicket  of 
brambles  and  alder  bushes.  The  schoolmaster  now  bestowed 
both  whip  and  heel  upon  the  starveling  ribs  of  old  Gunpowder, 
who  dashed  forward,  snuffling  and  snorting,  but  came  to  a  stand 
just  by  the  bridge  with  a  suddenness  that  had  nearly  sent  his 
rider  sprawling  over  his  head.  Just  at  this  moment  a  plashy 
tramp  by  the  side  of  the  bridge  caught  the  sensitive  ear  of  Icha- 
bod. In  the  dark  shadow  of  the  grove,  on  the  margin  of  the 
brook,  he  beheld  something  huge,  misshapen,  black,  and  tower- 
ing. It  stirred  not,  but  seemed  gathered  up  in  the  gloom,  like 
some  gigantic  monster  ready  to  spring  upon  the  traveler. 

The  hair  of  the  affrighted  pedagogue  rose  upon  his  head  with 
terror.  What  was  to  be  done?  To  turn  and  fly  was  now  too 
late ;  and,  besides,  what  chance  was  there  of  escaping  ghost  or 
goblin,  if  such  it  was,  which  could  ride  upon  the  wings  of  the 
wind?  Summoning  up,  therefore,  a  show  of  courage,  he  de- 
manded in  stammering  accents,  "  Who  are  you?  "  He  received 
no  reply.  He  repeated  his  demand  in  a  still  more  agitated  voice. 
Still  <  there  was  no  answer.  Once  more  he  cudgeled  the  sides  of 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  125 

the  inflexible  Gunpowder,  and,  shutting  his  eyes,  broke  forth  with 
involuntary  fervor  into  a  psalm  tune.  Just  then  the  shadowy 
object  of  alarm  put  itself  in  motion,  and,  with  a  scramble  and  a 
bound,  stood  at  once  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  Though  the 
night  was  dark  and  dismal,  yet  the  form  of  the  unknown  might 
now  in  some  degree  be  ascertained.  He  appeared  to  be  a  horse- 
man of  large  dimensions,  and  mounted  on  a  black  horse  of 
powerful  frame.  He  made  no  offer  of  molestation  or  sociability, 
but  kept  aloof  on  one  side  of  the  road,  jogging  along  on  the  blind 
side  of  old  Gunpowder,  who  had  now  got  over  his  fright  and 
waywardness. 

Ichabod,  who  had  no  relish  for  this  strange  midnight  com- 
panion, and  bethought  himself  of  the  adventure  of  Brom  Bones 
with  the  Galloping  Hessian,  now  quickened  his  steed,  in  hopes 
of  leaving  him  behind.  The  stranger,  however,  quickened  his 
horse  to  an  equal  pace.  Ichabod  pulled  up,  and  fell  into  a  walk, 
thinking  to  lag  behind :  the  other  did  the  same.  His  heart  be- 
gan to  sink  within  him.  He  endeavored  to  resume  his  psalm 
tune ;  but  his  parched  tongue  clove  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth, 
and  he  could  not  utter  a  stave.  There  was  something  in  the 
moody  and  dogged  silence  of  this  pertinacious  companion  that 
was  mysterious  and  appalling.  It  was  soon  fearfully  accounted 
for.  On  mounting  a  rising  ground,  which  brought  the  figure  of 
his  fellow-traveler  in  relief  against  the  sky,  gigantic  in  height,  and 
muffled  in  a  cloak,  Ichabod  was  horror-struck  on  perceiving  that 
he  was  headless ;  but  his  horror  was  still  more  increased  on  ob- 
serving that  the  head,  which  should  have  rested  on  his  shoulders, 
was  carried  before  him  on  the  pommel  of  his  saddle.  His  terror 
rose  to  desperation.  He  reined  a  shower  of  kicks  and  blows 
upon  Gunpowder,  hoping,  by  a  sudden  movement,  to  give  his 
companion  the  slip ;  but  the  specter  started  full  jump  with  him. 
Away  then  they  dashed,  through  thick  and  thin ;  stones  flying, 
and  sparks  flashing,  at  every  bound.  Ichabod's  flimsy  garments 
fluttered  in  the  air,  as  he  stretched  his  long,  lank  body  away  over 
his  horse's  head,  in  the  eagerness  of  his  flight. 


126  IRVING. 

They  had  now  reached  the  road  which  turns  off  to  Sleepy 
Hollow ;  but  Gunpowder,  who  seemed  possessed  with  a  demon, 
instead  of  keeping  up  it,  made  an  opposite  turn,  and  plunged 
headlong  downhill  to  the  left.  This  road  leads  through  a  sandy 
hollow,  shaded  by  trees  for  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  where  it 
crosses  the  bridge  famous  in  goblin  story  ;  and  just  beyond  swells 
the  green  knoll  on  which  stands  the  whitewashed  church. 

As  yet  the  panic  of  the  steed  had  given  his  unskillful  rider  an 
apparent  advantage  in  the  chase  ;  but,  just  as  he  had  got  halfway 
through  the  hollow,  the  girths  of  the  saddle  gave  way,  and  he 
felt  it  slipping  from  under  him.  He  seized  it  by  the  pommel, 
and  endeavored  to  hold  it  firm,  but  in  vain ;  and  had  just  time 
to  save  himself  by  clasping  old  Gunpowder  round  the  neck,  when 
the  saddle  fell  to  the  earth,  and  he  heard  it  trampled  under  foot 
by  his  pursuer.  For  a  moment  the  terror  of  Hans  Van  Ripper's 
wrath  passed  across  his  mind,  for  it  was  his  Sunday  saddle ;  but 
this  was  no  time  for  petty  fears.  The  goblin  was  hard  on  his 
haunches ;  and  (unskillful  rider  that  he  was)  he  had  much  ado  to 
maintain  his  seat,  sometimes  slipping  on  one  side,  sometimes  on 
another,  and  sometimes  jolted  on  the  high  ridge  of  his  horse's 
backbone  with  a  violence  that  he  verily  feared  would  cleave  him 
asunder. 

An  opening  in  the  trees  now  cheered  him  with  the  hopes  that 
the  church  bridge  was  at  hand.  The  wavering  reflection  of  a 
silver  star  in  the  bosom  of  the  brook  told  him  that  he  was  not 
mistaken.  He  saw  the  walls  of  the  church  dimly  glaring  under 
the  trees  beyond.  He  recollected  the  place  where  Brom  Bones's 
ghostly  competitor  had  disappeared.  "  If  I  can  but  reach  that 
bridge,"  thought  Ichabod,  "  I  am  safe."  Just  then  he  heard  the 
black  steed  panting  and  blowing  close  behind  him.  He  even 
fancied  that  he  felt  his  hot  breath.  Another  convulsive  kick  in 
the  ribs,  and  old  Gunpowder  sprang  upon  the  bridge ;  he  thun- 
dered over  the  resounding  planks ;  he  gained  the  opposite  side ; 
and  now  Ichabod  cast  a  look  behind  to  see  if  his  pursuer  should 
vanish,  according  to  rule,  in  a  flash  of  fire  and  brimstone.  Just 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK.  127 

then  he  saw  the  goblin  rising  in  his  stirrups,  and  in  the  very  act 
of  hurling  his  head  at  him.  Ichabod  endeavored  to  dodge  the 
horrible  missile,  but  too  late.  It  encountered  his  cranium  with  a 
tremendous  crash.  He  was  tumbled  headlong  into  the  dust; 
and  Gunpowder,  the  black  steed,  and  the  goblin  rider,  passed  by 
like  a  whirlwind.  L,  ^ 

The  next  morning  the  old  horse  was  found  without  his  saddle, 
and  with  the  bridle  under  his  feet,  soberly  cropping  the  grass  at 
his  master's  gate.  Ichabod  did  not  make  his  appearance  at 
breakfast.  Dinner-hour  came,  but  no  Ichabod.  The  boys  as- 
sembled at  the  schoolhouse,  and  strolled  idly  about  the  banks  of 
the  brook ;  but  no  schoolmaster.  Hans  Van  Ripper  now  began 
to  feel  some  uneasiness  about  the  fate  of  poor  Ichabod  and  his 
saddle.  An  inquiry  was  set  on  foot,  and  after  diligent  investiga- 
tion they  came  upon  his  traces.  In  one  part  of  the  road  leading 
to  the  church  was  found  the  saddle  trampled  in  the  dirt.  The 
tracks  of  horses'  hoofs  deeply  dented  in  the  road,  and  evidently 
at  furious  speed,  were  traced  to  the  bridge,  beyond  which,  on  the 
bank  of  a  broad  part  of  the  brook,  where  the  water  ran  deep  and 
black,  was  found  the  hat  of  the  unfortunate  Ichabod,  and  close 
beside  it  a  shattered  pumpkin. 

The  brook  was  searched,  but  the  body  of  the  schoolmaster  was 
not  to  be  discovered.  Hans  Van  Ripper,  as  executor  of  his  es- 
tate, examined  the  bundle  which  contained  all  his  worldly  effects. 
They  consisted  of  two  shirts  and  a  half ;  two  stocks  for  the  neck ; 
a  pair  or  two  of  worsted  stockings ;  an  old  pair  of  corduroy 
small-clothes ;  a  rusty  razor ;  a  book  of  psalm  tunes,  full  of  dogs' 
ears;  and  a  broken  pitchpipe.  As  to  the  books  and  furniture 
of  the  schoolhouse,  they  belonged  to  the  community,  excepting 
Cotton  Mather's  "History  of  Witchcraft,"  a  "New  England 
Almanac,"  and  a  book  of  dreams  and  fortune-telling;  in  which 
last  was  a  sheet  of  foolscap  much  scribbled  and  blotted  by  sev- 
eral fruitless  attempts  to  make  a  copy  of  verses  in  honor  of  the 
heiress  of  Van  Tassel.  These  magic  books  and  the  poetic  scrawl 
were  forthwith  consigned  to  the  flames  by  Hans  Van  Ripper, 


128  IRVING. 

who  from  that  time  forward  determined  to  send  his  children  no 
more  to  school,  observing  that  he  never  knew  any  good  come  of 
this  same  reading  and  writing.  Whatever  money  the  school- 
master possessed,  and  he  had  received  his  quarter's  pay  but  a 
day  or  two  before,  he  must  have  had  about  his  person  at  the 
time  of  his  disappearance. 

The  mysterious  event  caused  much  speculation  at  the  church 
on  the  following  Sunday.  Knots  of  gazers  and  gossips  were 
collected  in  the  churchyard,  at  the  bridge,  and  at  the  spot  where 
the  hat  and  pumpkin  had  been  found.  The  stories  of  Brouwer, 
of  Bones,  and  a  whole  budget  of  others,  were  called  to  mind ; 
and  when  they  had  diligently  considered  them  all,  and  compared 
them  with  the  symptoms  of  the  present  case,  they  shook  their 
heads,  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  Ichabod  had  been  car- 
ried off  by  the  Galloping  Hessian.  As  he  was  a  bachelor,  and 
in  nobody's  debt,  nobody  troubled  his  head  any  more  about  him. 
The  school  was  removed  to  a  different  quarter  of  the  hollow,  and 
another  pedagogue  reigned  in  his  stead. 

It  is  true,  an  old  farmer,  who  had  been  down  to  New  York  on 
a  visit  several  years  after,  and  from  whom  this  account  of  the 
ghostly  adventure  was  received,  brought  home  the  intelligence 
that  Ichabod  Crane  was  still  alive ;  that  he  had  left  the  neigh- 
borhood, partly  through  fear  of  the  goblin  and  Hans  Van  Rip- 
per, and  partly  in  mortification  at  having  been  suddenly  dismissed 
by  the  heiress ;  that  he  had  changed  his  quarters  to  a  distant 
part  of  the  country,  had  kept  school  and  studied  law  at  the  same 
time,  had  been  admitted  to  the  bar,  turned  politician,  election- 
eered, written  for  the  newspapers,  and  finally  had  been  made  a 
justice  of  the  Ten  Pound  Court.  Brom  Bones,  too,  who  shortly 
after  his  rival's  disappearance  conducted  the  blooming  Katrina 
in  triumph  to  the  altar,  was  observed  to  look  exceedingly  know- 
ing whenever  the  story  of  Ichabod  was  related,  and  always  burst 
into  a  hearty  laugh  at  the  mention  of  the  pumpkin,  which  led 
some  to  suspect  that  he  knew  more  about  the  matter  than  he 
chose  to  tell. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  129 

The  old  country  wives,  however,  who  are  the  best  judges  of 
these  matters,  maintain  to  this  day  that  Ichabod  was  spirited 
away  by  supernatural  means ;  and  it  is  a  favorite  story  often  told 
about  the  neighborhood  round  the  winter  evening  fire.  The 
bridge  became  more  than  ever  an  object  of  superstitious  awe ; 
and  that  may  be  the  reason  why  the  road  has  been  altered  of  late 
years,  so  as  to  approach  the  church  by  the  border  of  the  mill- 
pond.  The  schoolhouse,  being  deserted,  soon  fell  to  decay,  and 
was  reported  to  be  haunted  by  the  ghost  of  the  unfortunate  peda- 
gogue ;  and  the  plow-boy,  loitering  homeward  of  a  still  summer 
evening,  has  often  fancied  his  voice  at  a  distance,  chanting  a 
melancholy  psalm  tune  among  the  tranquil  solitudes  of  Sleepy 

Hollow. 

« 

POSTSCRIPT. 

[Found  in  the  handwriting  of  Mr.  Knickerbocker.] 

THE  preceding  tale  is  given  almost  in  the  precise  words  in  which  I  heard 
It  related  at  a  corporation  meeting  of  the  ancient  city  of  the  Manhattoes,1 
at  which  were  present  many  of  its  sagest  and  most  illustrious  burghers.  The 
narrator  was  a  pleasant,  shabby,  gentlemanly  old  fellow,  in  pepper-and-salt 
clothes,  with  a  sadly  humorous  face ;  and  one  whom  I  strongly  suspected  of 
being  poor,  he  made  such  efforts  to  be  entertaining.  When  his  story  was 
concluded,  there  was  much  laughter  and  approbation,  particularly  from  two 
or  three  deputy  aldermen,  who  had  been  asleep  the  greater  part  of  the  time. 
There  was,  however,  one  tall,  dry-looking  old  gentleman,  with  beetling  eye- 
brows, who  maintained  a  grave  and  rather  severe  face  throughout ;  now  and 
then  folding  his  arms,  inclining  his  head,  and  looking  down  upon  the  floor, 
as  if  turning  a  doubt  over  in  his  mind.  He  was  one  of  your  wary  men,  who 
never  laugh  but  upon  good  grounds,  when  they  have  reason  and  the  law  on 
their  side.  When  the  mirth  of  the  rest  of  the  company  had  subsided  and 
silence  was  restored,  he  leaned  one  arm  on  the  elbow  of  his  chair,  and,  stick- 
ing the  other  akimbo,  demanded,  with  a  slight  but  exceedingly  sage  motion 
of  the  head  and  contraction  of  the  brow,  what  was  the  moral  of  the  story, 
and  what  it  went  to  prove. 

The  story-teller,  who  was  just  putting  a  glass  of  wine  to  his  lips,  as  a  re- 
freshment after  his  toils,  paused  for  a  moment,  looked  at  his  inquirer  with  an 

1  Manhattan,  i.e.,  New  York. 


130  IRVING. 

air  of  infinite  deference,  and,  lowering  the  glass  slowly  to  the  table,  observed 
that  the  story  was  intended  most  logically  to  prove,  — 

"  That  there  is  no  situation  in  life  but  has  its  advantages  and  pleasures, 
provided  we  will  but  take  a  joke  as  we  find  it. 

' '  That  therefore  he  that  runs  races  with  goblin  troopers  is  likely  to  have 
rough  riding  of  it. 

"  Ergo,  for  a  country  schoolmaster  to  be  refused  the  hand  of  a  Dutch  heir- 
ess, is  a  certain  step  to  high  preferment  in  the  State." 

The  cautious  old  gentleman  knit  his  brows  tenfold  closer  after  this  ex- 
planation, being  sorely  puzzled  by  the  ratiocination  of  the  syllogism ;  while, 
methought,  the  one  in  pepper-and-salt  eyed  him  with  something  of  a 
triumphant  leer.  At  length  he  observed  that  all  this  was  very  well,  but  still 
he  thought  the  story  a  little  on  the  extravagant :  there  were  one  or  two  points 
on  which  he  had  his  doubts. 

"  Faith,  sir,"  replied  the  story-teller,  "  as  to  that  matter,  I  don't  believe 
one  half  of  it  myself." 

D.  K. 


RIP    VAN    WINKLE. 

[A  Posthumous  Writing  of  Dudrich  Knickerbocker.] 

1 By  Woden,  God  of  Saxons, 

from  whence  comes  Wensday,  that  is  Wodensdayy 

Truth  is  a  thing  that  ever  I  will  keep 

Unto  thy  Ike  day  in  which  I  creep  into 

My  supulchre" 

CARTWRIGHT. 

WHOEVER  has  made  a  voyage  up  the  Hudson  must  re- 
member the  Catskill  Mountains.  They  are  a  dismembered 
branch  of  the  great  Appalachian  family,  and  are  seen  away  to 
the  west  of  the  river,  swelling  up  to  a  noble  height,  and  lording 
it  over  the  surrounding  counfry.  Every  change  of  season,  every 
change  of  weather,  indeed  every  hour  of  the  day,  produces  some 
change  in  the  magical  hues  and  shapes  of  these  mountains ;  and 
they  are  regarded  by  all  the  good  wives,  far  and  near,  as  perfect 
barometers.  When  the  weather  is  fair  and  settled,  they  are 
clothed  in  blue  and  purple,  and  print  their  bold  outlines  on  the 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  131 

clear  evening  sky;  but  sometimes,  when  the  rest  of  the  land- 
scape is  cloudless,  they  will  gather  a  hood  of  gray  vapors  about 
their  summits,  which,  in  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  will  glow 
and  light  up  like  a  crown  of  glory. 

At  the  foot  of  these  fairy  mountains  the  voyager  may  have 
descried  the  light  smoke  curling  up  from  a  village,  whose  shingle- 
roofs  gleam  among  the  trees,  just  where  the  blue  tints  of  the  up- 
land melt  away  into  the  fresh  green  of  the  nearer  landscape.  It 
is  a  little  village,  of  great  antiquity,  having  been  founded  by  some 
of  the  Dutch  colonists  in  the  early  times  of  the  province,  just 
about  the  beginning  of  the  government  of  the  good  Peter  Stuy- 
vesant ; l  (may  he  rest  in  peace ! )  and  there  were  some  of  the 
houses  of  the  original  settlers  standing  within  a  few  years,  built 
of  small,  yellow  bricks  brought  from  Holland,  having  latticed 
windows  and  gable  fronts,  surmounted  with  weathercocks. 

In  that  same  village,  and  in  one  of  these  very  houses  (which, 
to  tell  the  precise  truth,  was  sadly  time-worn  and  weather-beaten), 
there  lived  many  years  since,  while  the  country  was  yet  a  prov- 
ince of  Great  Britain,  a  simple,  good-natured  fellow  of  the  name 
of  Rip  Van  Winkle.  He  was  a  descendant  of  the  Van  Winkles 
who  figured  so  gallantly  in  the  chivalrous  days  of  Peter  Stuyve- 
sant,  and  accompanied  him  to  the  siege  of  Fort  Christina.2  He 
inherited,  however,  but  little  of  the  martial  character  of  his  an- 
cestors. I  have  observed  that  he  was  a  simple,  good-natured 
man ;  he  was,  moreover,  a  kind  neighbor,  and  an  obedient,  hen- 
pecked husband.  Indeed,  to  the  latter  circumstance  might  be 
owing  that  meekness  of  spirit  which  gained  him  such  universal 
popularity ;  for  those  men  are  most  apt  to  be  obsequious  and 
conciliating  abroad,  who  are  under  the  discipline  of  shrews  at 
home.  Their  tempers,  doubtless,  are  rendered  pliant  and  malle- 
able in  the  fiery  furnace  of  domestic  tribulation ;  and  a  curtain 

1  Governor  of  Manhattan  Island  in  1647. 

2  Fort  Christina,  or  Christiana,  was  a  Swedish  fort,  situated  five  miles 
north  of  Fort  Cassimir  (now  Newcastle,  Del.),  attacked  and  captured  by  the 
Dutch  of  New  Netherlands  in  1655. 


132  IRVING. 

lecture  is  worth  all  the  sermons  in  the  world  for  teaching  the  vir- 
tues of  patience  and  long-suffering.  A  termagant  wife  may  there- 
fore, in  some  respects,  be  considered  a  tolerable  blessing ;  and, 
if  so,  Rip  Van  Winkle  was  thrice  blessed. 

Certain  it  is,  that  he  was  a  great  favorite  among  all  the  good 
wives  of  the  village,  who,  as  usual  with  the  amiable  sex,  took  his 
part  in  all  family  squabbles,  and  never  failed,  whenever  they 
talked  those  matters  over  in  their  evening  gossipings,  to  lay  all  the 
blame  on  Dame  Van  Winkle.  The  children  of  the  village,  too, 
would  shout  with  joy  whenever  he  approached.  He  assisted  at 
their  sports,  made  their  playthings,  taught  them  to  fly  kites  and 
shoot  marbles,  and  told  them  long  stories  of  ghosts,  witches,  and 
Indians.  Whenever  he  went  dodging  about  the  village,  he  was 
surrounded  by  a  troop  of  them,  hanging  on  his  skirts,  clamber- 
ing on  his  back,  and  playing  a  thousand  tricks  on  him  with 
impunity;  and  not  a  dog  would  bark  at  him  throughout  the 
neighborhood. 

The  great  error  in  Rip's  composition  was  an  insuperable  aver- 
sion to  all  kinds  of  profitable  labor.  It  could  not  be  from  the 
want  of  assiduity  or  perseverance ;  for  he  would  sit  on  a  wet 
rock,  with  a  rod  as  long  and  heavy  as  a  Tartar's1  lance,  and 
fish  all  day  without  a  murmur,  even  though  he  should  not  be 
encouraged  by  a  single  nibble.  He  would  carry  a  fowling-piece 
on  his  shoulder  for  hours  together,  trudging  through  woods  and 
swamps,  and  up  hill  and  down  dale,  to  shoot  a  few  squirrels  or 
wild  pigeons.  He  would  never  refuse  to  assist  a  neighbor  even 
in  the  roughest  toil,  and  was  a  foremost  man  at  all  country  frolics 
for  husking  Indian  corn  or  building  stone  fences.  The  women 
of  the  village,  too,  used  to  employ  him  to  run  their  errands,  and 
to  do  such  little  odd  jobs  as  their  less  obliging  husbands  would 
not  do  for  them.  In  a  word,  Rip  was  ready  to  attend  to  any- 
body's business  but  his  own ;  but  as  to  doing  family  duty,  and 
keeping  his  farm  in  order,  he  found  it  impossible. 

In  fact,  he  declared  it  was  of  no  use  to  work  on  his  farm.     It 

1  See  note,  p.  108. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  133 

was  the  most  pestilent  little  piece  of  ground  in  the  whole  country. 
Everything  about  it  went  wrong,  and  would  go  wrong,  in  spite 
of  him.  His  fences  were  continually  falling  to  pieces ;  his  cow 
would  either  go  astray,  or  get  among  the  cabbages ;  weeds  were 
sure  to  grow  quicker  in  his  fields  than  anywhere  else ;  the  rain 
always  made  a  point  of  setting  in  just  as  he  had  some  outdoor 
work  to  do :  so  that,  though  his  patrimonial  estate  had  dwindled 
away  under  his  management  acre  by  acre,  until  there  was  little 
more  left  than  a  mere  patch  of  Indian  corn  and  potatoes,  yet  it 
was  the  worst-conditioned  farm  in  the  neighborhood. 

His  children,  too,  were  as  ragged  and  wild  as  if  they  belonged 
to  nobody.  His  son  Rip,  an  urchin  begotten  in  his  own  likeness, 
promised  to  inherit  the  habits  with  the  old  clothes  of  his  father. 
He  was  generally  seen  trooping  like  a  colt  at  his  mother's  heels, 
equipped  in  a  pair  of  his  father's  cast-off  galligaskins,1  which  he 
had  much  ado  to  hold  up  with  one  hand,  as  a  fine  lady  does  her 
train  in  bad  weather. 

Rip  Van  Winkle,  however,  was  one  of  those  happy  mortals,  of 
foolish,  well-oiled  dispositions,  who  take  the  world  easy,  eat  white 
bread  or  brown,  whichever  can  be  got  with  least  thought  or 
trouble,  and  would  rather  starve  on  a  penny  than  work  for  a 
pound.  If  left  to  himself,  he  would  have  whistled  life  away  in  per- 
fect contentment ;  but  his  wife  kept  continually  dinning  in  his  ears 
about  his  idleness,  his  carelessness,  and  the  ruin  he  was  bringing 
on  his  family. 

Morning,  noon,  and  night,  her  tongue  was  incessantly  going, 
and  everything  he  said  or  did  was  sure  to  produce  a  torrent  of 
household  eloquence.  Rip  had  but  one  way  of  replying  to  all 
lectures  of  the  kind,  and  that,  by  frequent  use,  had  grown  into  a 
habit.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  shook  his  head,  cast  up  his 
eyes,  but  said  nothing.  This,  however,  always  provoked  a  fresh 
volley  from  his  wife ;  so  that  he  was  fain  to  draw  off  his  forces, 
and  take  to  the  outside  of  the  house,  —  the  only  side  which,  in 
truth,  belongs  to  a  hen-pecked  husband. 

1  A  kind  of  wide  breeches. 


134  IRVING. 

Rip's  sole  domestic  adherent  was  his  dog  Wolf,  who  was  as 
much  hen-pecked  as  his  master ;  for  Dame  Van  Winkle  regarded 
them  as  companions  in  idleness,  and  even  looked  upon  Wolf  with 
an  evil  eye,  as  the  cause  of  his  master's  going  so  often  astray. 
True  it  is,  in  all  points  of  spirit  befitting  an  honorable  dog,  he 
was  as  courageous  an  animal  as  ever  scoured  the  woods ;  but 
what  courage  can  withstand  the  ever-during  and  all-besetting  ter- 
rors of  a  woman's  tongue?  The  moment  Wolf  entered  the  house, 
his  crest  fell ;  his  tail  drooped  to  the  ground  or  curled  between 
his  legs ;  he  sneaked  about  with  a  gallows  air,  casting  many  a 
sidelong  glance  at  Dame  Van  Winkle ;  and,  at  the  least  flourish 
of  a  broomstick  or  ladle,  he  would  fly  to  the  door  with  yelping 
precipitation. 

Times  grew  worse  and  worse  with  Rip  Van  Winkle  as  years  of 
matrimony  rolled  on.  A.  tart  temper  never  mellows  with  age, 
and  a  sharp  tongue  is  the  only  edged  tool  that  grows  keener  with 
constant  use.]  For  a  long  while  he  used  to  console  himself,  when 
driven  from  home,  by  frequenting  a  kind  of  perpetual  club  of  the 
sages,  philosophers,  and  other  idle  personages  of  the  village, 
which  held  its  sessions  on  a  bench  before  a  small  inn,  designated 
by  a  rubicund  portrait  of  his  Majesty  George  III.1  Here  they 
used  to  sit  in  the  shade  of  a  long,  lazy,  summer's  day,  talking 
listlessly  over  village  gossip,  or  telling  endless  sleepy  stories  about 
nothing.  But  it  would  have  been  worth  any  statesman's  money 
to  have  heard  the  profound  discussions  which  sometimes  took 
place,  when  by  chance  an  old  newspaper  fell  into  their  hands 
from  some  passing  traveler.  How  solemnly  they  would  listen  to 
the  contents,  as  drawled  out  by  Derrick  Van  Bummel,  the  school- 
master,—  a  dapper,  learned  little  man,  who  was  not  to  be  daunted 
by  the  most  gigantic  word  in  the  dictionary!  and  how  sagely 
they  would  deliberate  upon  public  events  some  months  after  they 
had  taken  place! 

The  opinions   of  this  junto  were  completely  controlled  by 

1  George  III.  (1738-1820)  ascended  the  English  throne  in  1760,  and 
reigned  sixty  years. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  135 

Nicholas  Vedder,  a  patriarch  of  the  village,  and  landlord  of  the 
inn,  at  the  door  of  which  he  took  his  seat  from  morning  till 
night,  just  moving  sufficiently  to  avoid  the  sun,  and  keep  in  the 
shade  of  a  large  tree ;  so  that  the  neighbors  could  tell  the  hour 
by  his  movements  as  accurately  as  by  a  sun-dial.  It  is  true,  he 
was  rarely  heard  to  speak,  but  smoked  his  pipe  incessantly.  His 
adherents,  however  (for  every  great  man  has  his  adherents),  per- 
fectly understood  him,  and  knew  how  to  gather  his  opinions. 
When  anything  that  was  read,  or  related  displeased  him,  he  was 
observed  to  smoke  his  pipe  vehemently,  and  to  send  forth  short, 
frequent,  and  angry  puffs ;  but,  when  pleased,  he  would  inhale 
the  smoke  slowly  and  tranquilly,  and  emit  it  in  light  and  placid 
clouds,  and  sometimes,  taking  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  let- 
ting the  fragrant  vapor  curl  about  his  nose,  would  gravely  nod 
his  head  in  token  of  perfect  approbation. 

From  even  this  stronghold  the  unlucky  Rip  was  at  length 
routed  by  his  termagant  wife,  who  would  suddenly  break  in  upon 
the  tranquillity  of  the  assemblage,  and  call  the  members  all  to 
naught ;  nor  was  that  august  personage,  Nicholas  Vedder  him- 
self, sacred  from  the  daring  tongue  of  this  terrible  virago,  who 
charged  him  outright  with  encouraging  her  husband  in  habits  of 
idleness. 

Poor  Rip  was  at  last  reduced  almost  to  despair ;  and  his  only 
alternative,  to  escape  from  the  labor  of  the  farm  and  the  clamor 
of  his  wife,  was  to  take  gun  in  hand  and  stroll  away  into  the 
woods.  Here  he  would  sometimes  seat  himself  at  the  foot  of  a 
tree,  and  share  the  contents  of  his  wallet  with  Wolf,  with  whom 
he  sympathized  as  a  fellow-sufferer  in  persecution.  "  Poor  Wolf," 
he  would  say,  "  thy  mistress  leads  thee  a  dog's  life  of  it ;  but 
never  mind,  my  lad,  whilst  I  live  thou  shalt  never,  want  a  friend 
to  stand  by  thee ! "  Wolf  would  wag  his  tail,  look  wistfully  in 
his  master's  face,  and,  if  dogs  can  feel  pity,  I  verily  believe  he 
reciprocated  the  sentiment  with  all  his  heart. 

In  a  long  ramble  of  the  kind  on  a  fine  autumnal  day,  Rip  had 
unconsciously  scrambled  to  one  of  the  highest  parts  of  the  Cats- 


136  IRVING. 

kill  Mountains.  He  was  after  his  favorite  sport  of  squirrel 
shooting,  and  the  still  solitudes  had  echoed  and  reechoed  with 
the  reports  of  his  gun.  Panting  and  fatigued,  he  threw  himself, 
late  in  the  afternoon,  on  a  green  knoll,  covered  with  mountain 
herbage,  that  crowned  the  brow  of  a  precipice.  From  an  open- 
ing between  the  trees  he  could  overlook  all  the  lower  country  for 
many  a  mile  of  rich  woodland.  He  saw  at  a  distance  the  lordly 
Hudson,  far,  far  below  him,  moving  on  its  silent  but  majestic 
course,  with  the  reflection  of  a  purple  cloud,  or  the  sail  of  a  lag- 
ging bark,  here  and  there  sleeping  on  its  glassy  bosom,  and  at 
last  losing  itself  in  the  blue  highlands. 

On  the  other  side  he  looked  down  into  a  deep  mountain  glen, 
wild,  lonely,  and  shagged,  the  bottom  filled  with  fragments  from 
the  impending  cliffs,  and  scarcely  lighted  by  the  reflected  rays  of 
the  setting  sun.  For  some  time  Rip  lay  musing  on  this  scene. 
Evening  was  gradually  advancing ;  the  mountains  began  to  throw 
their  long,  blue  shadows  over  the  valleys ;  he  saw  that  it  would 
be  dark  long  before  he  could  reach  the  village,  and  he  heaved  a 
heavy  sigh  when  he  thought  of  encountering  the  terrors  of  Dame 
Van  Winkle.  \ 

As  he  was  about  to  descend,  he  heard  a  voice  from  a  distance, 
hullooing,  "  Rip  Van  Winkle!  Rip  Van  Winkle!  "  He  looked 
around,  but  could  see  nothing  but  a  crow  winging  its  solitary  flight 
across  the  mountain.  He  thought  his  fancy  must  have  deceived 
him,  and  turned  again  to  descend,  when  he  heard  the  same  cry 
ring  through  the  still  evening  air,  "  Rip  Van  Winkle !  Rip  Van 
Winkle ! "  At  the  same  time  Wolf  bristled  up  his  back,  and,  giv- 
ing a  low  growl,  skulked  to  his  master's  side,  looking  fearfully 
down  into  the  glen.  Rip  now  felt  a  vague  apprehension  stealing 
over  him.  He  looked  anxiously  in  the  same  direction,  and  per- 
ceived a  strange  figure  slowly  toiling  up  the  rocks,  and  bending 
under  the  weight  of  something  he  carried  on  his  back.  He  was 
surprised  to  see  any  human  being  in  this  lonely  and  unfrequented 
place,  but,  supposing  it  to  be  some  one  of  the  neighborhood  in 
need  of  his  assistance,  he  hastened  down  to  yield  it. 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK.  13? 

On  nearer  approach  he  was  still  more  surprised  at  the  singu- 
larity of  the  stranger's  appearance.  He  was  a  short,  square-built 
old  fellow,  with  thick,  bushy  hair,  and  a  grizzled  beard.  His 
dress  was  of  the  antique  Dutch  fashion,  —  a  cloth  jerkin1  strapped 
round  the  waist ;  several  pair  of  breeches,  the  outer  one  of  ample 
volume,  decorated  with  rows  of  buttons  down  the  sides,  and 
bunches  -at  the  knees.  He  bore  on  his  shoulders  a  stout  keg,  that 
seemed  full  of  liquor,  and  made  signs  for  Rip  to  approach  and 
assist  him  with  the  load.  Though  rather  shy  and  distrustful  of 
this  new  acquaintance,  Rip  complied  with  his  usual  alacrity ;  and, 
mutually  relieving  each  other,  they  clambered  up  a  narrow  gully, 
apparently  the  dry  bed  of  a  mountain  torrent.  As  they  ascended, 
Rip  every  now  and  then  heard  long,  rolling  peals,  like  distant 
thunder,  that  seemed  to  issue  out  of  a  deep  ravine,  or  rather  cleft, 
between  lofty  rocks,  toward  which  their  rugged  path  conducted. 
He  paused  for  an  instant,  but,  supposing  it  to  be  the  muttering 
of  one  of  those  transient  thunder-showers  which  often  take  place 
in  mountain  heights,  he  proceeded.  Passing  through  the  ravine, 
they  came  to  a  hollow,  like  a  small  amphitheater,  surrounded 
by  perpendicular  precipices,  over  the  brinks  of  which  impending 
trees  shot  their  branches,  so  that  you  only  caught  glimpses  of  the 
azure  sky  and  the  bright  evening  cloud.  During  the  whole  time, 
Rip  and  his  companion  had  labored  on  in  silence ;  for,  though 
the  former  marveled  greatly  what  could  be  the  object  of  carrying 
a  keg  of  liquor  up  this  wild  mountain,  yet  there  was  something 
strange  and  incomprehensible  about  the  unknown,  that  inspired 
awe  and  checked  familiarity. 

On  entering  the  amphitheater,  new  objects  of  wonder  presented 
themselves.  On  a  level  spot  in  the  center  was  a  company  of 
odd-looking  personages  playing  at  ninepins.  They  were  dressed 
in  a  quaint,  outlandish  fashion.  Some  wore  short  doublets;2 
others,  jerkins,  with  long  knives  in  their  belts ;  and  most  of  them 

1  A  close  jacket  much  worn  in  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries. 

2  A  close-fitting  outer  garment,  covering  the  body  from  the  neck  to  below 
the  waist. 


138  IRVING. 

had  enormous  breeches,  of  similar  style  with  that  of  the  guide's. 
Their  visages,  too,  were  peculiar.  One  had  a  large  head,  broad 
face,  and  small,  piggish  eyes.  The  face  of  another  seemed  to 
consist  entirely  of  nose,  and  was  surmounted  by  a  white  sugar- 
loaf  hat,  set  off  with  a  little  red  cock's  tail.  They  all  had  beards, 
of  various  shapes  and  colors.  There  was  one  who  seemed  to  be 
the  commander.  He  was  a  stout  old  gentleman,  with  a  -weather- 
beaten  countenance.  He  wore  a  laced  doublet,  broad  belt  and 
hanger,1  high-crowned  hat  and  feather,  red  stockings,  and  high- 
heeled  shoes  with  roses  in  them.  The  whole  group  reminded  Rip 
of  the  figures  in  an  old  Flemish  painting  in  the  parlor  of  Domi- 
nie Van  Schaick,  the  village  parson,  and  which  had  been  brought 
over  from  Holland  at  the  time  of  the  settlement. 

What  seemed  particularly  odd  to  Rip  was,  that,  though  these 
folks  were  evidently  amusing  themselves,  yet  they  maintained  the 
gravest  faces,  the  most  mysterious  silence,  and  were,  withal,  the 
most  melancholy  party  of  pleasure  he  had  ever  witnessed.  Noth- 
ing interrupted  the  stillness  of  the  scene  but  the  noise  of  the  balls, 
which,  whenever  they  were  rolled,  echoed  along  the  mountains 
like  rumbling  peals  of  thunder. 

As  Rip  and  his  companion  approached  them,  they  suddenly 
desisted  from  their  play,  and  stared  at  him  with  such  fixed, 
statue-like  gaze,  and  such  strange,  uncouth,  lack-luster  counte- 
nances, that  his  heart  turned  within  him,  and  his  knees  smote  to- 
gether. His  companion  now  emptied  the  contents  of  the  keg 
into  large  flagons,  and  made  signs  to  him  to  wait  upon  the  com- 
pany. He  obeyed  with  fear  and  trembling.  They  quaffed  the 
liquor  in  profound  silence,  and  then  returned  to  their  game. 

By  degrees  Rip's  awe  and  apprehension  subsided.  He  even 
ventured,  when  no  eye  was  fixed  upon  him,  to  taste  the  bever- 
age, which  he  found  had  much  of  the  flavor  of  excellent  Hol- 
lands.2 He  was  naturally  a  thirsty  soul,  and  was  soon  tempted 

1  A  short  broadsword  worn  from  the  girdle,  and  slightly  curved  at  the 
point. 

2  Holland  gin. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  139 

to  repeat  the  draught.  One  taste  provoked  another ;  and  he  re- 
iterated his  visits  to  the  flagon  so  often,  that  at  length  his  senses 
were  overpowered,  his  eyes  swam  in  his  head,  his  head  gradually 
declined,  and  he  fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 

On  waking,  he  found  himself  on  the  green  knoll  whence  he  had 
first  seen  the  old  man  of  the  glen.  He  rubbed  his  eyes.  It  was 
a  bright,  sunny  morning.  The  birds  were  hopping  and  twitter- 
ing among  the  bushes ;  and  the  eagle  was  wheeling  aloft,  and 
breasting  the  pure  mountain  breeze.  "Surely,"  thought  Rip, 
"  I  have  not  slept  here  all  night."  He  recalled  the  occurrences 
before  he  fell  asleep,  —  the  strange  man  with  a  keg  of  liquor, 
the  mountain  ravine,  the  wild  retreat  among  the  rocks,  the 
woe-begone  party  at  ninepins,  the  flagon.  "  Oh,  that  wicked 
flagon!"  thought  Rip:  "what  excuse  shall  I  make  to  Dame 
Van  Winkle!" 

He  looked  round  for  his  gun,  but  in  place  of  the  clean,  well- 
oiled  fowling-piece,  he  found  an  old  firelock  lying  by  him,  the 
barrel  incrusted  with  rust,  the  lock  falling  off,  and  the  stock 
worm-eaten.  He  now  suspected  that  the  grave  roysters  of  the 
mountain  had  put  a  trick  upon  him,  and,  having  dosed  him  with 
liquor,  had  robbed  him  of  his  gun.  Wolf,  too,  had  disappeared ; 
but  he  might  have  strayed  away  after  a  squirrel  or  partridge. 
He  whistled  after  him,  and  shouted  his  name,  but  all  in  vain : 
the  echoes  repeated  his  whistle  and  shout,  but  no  dog  was  to 
be  seen. 

He  determined  to  revisit  the  scene  of  the  last  evening's  gam- 
bol, and,  if  he  met  with  any  of  the  party,  to  demand  his  dog  and 
gun.  As  he  rose  to  walk,  he  found  himself  stiff  in  the  joints,  and 
wanting  in  his  usual  activity.  "These  mountain  beds  do  not 
agree  with  me,"  thought  Rip ;  "  and,  if  this  frolic  should  lay  me 
up  with  a  fit  of  the  rheumatism,  I  shall  have  a  blessed  time  with 
Dame  Van  Winkle."  With  some  difficulty  he  got  down  into  the 
glen.  He  found  the  gully  up  which  he  and  his  companion  had 
ascended  the  preceding  evening;  but,  to  his  astonishment,  a 
mountain  stream  was  now  foaming  down  it,  leaping  from  rock  to 


HO  IRVING. 

rock,  and  filling  the  glen  with  babbling  murmurs.  He,  however, 
made  shift  to  scramble  up  its  sides,  working  his  toilsome  way 
through  thickets  of  birch,  sassafras,  and  witch-hazel,  and  some^ 
times  tripped  up  or  entangled  by  the  wild  grape-vines  that  twisted 
their  coils  and  tendrils  from  tree  to  tree,  and  spread  a  kind  of 
network  in  his  path. 

At  length  he  reached  to  where  the  ravine  had  opened  through 
the  cliffs  to  the  amphitheater ;  but  no  traces  of  such  opening  re- 
mained. The  rocks  presented  a  high,  impenetrable  wall,  over 
which  the  torrent  came  tumbling  in  a  sheet  of  feathery  foam,  and 
fell  into  a  broad,  deep  basin,  black  from  the  shadows  of  the  sur- 
rounding forest.  Here,  then,  poor  Rip  was  brought  to  a  stand. 
He  again  called  and  whistled  after  his  dog.  He  was  only  an- 
swered by  the  cawing  of  a  flock  of  idle  crows,  sporting  high  in 
air  about  a  dry  tree  that  overhung  a  sunny  precipice,  and  who, 
secure  in  their  elevation,  seemed  to  look  down  and  scoff  at  the 
poor  man's  perplexities.  What  was  to  be  done?  The  morning 
was  passing  away,  and  Rip  felt  famished  for  want  of  his  break- 
fast. He  grieved  to  give  up  his  dog  and  gun,  he  dreaded  to 
meet  his  wife ;  but  it  would  not  do  to  starve  among  the  moun- 
tains. He  shook  his  head,  shouldered  the  rusty  firelock,  and, 
with  a  heart  full  of  trouble  and  anxiety,  turned  his  steps  home- 
ward. 

As  he  approached  the  village,  he  met  a  number  of  people,  but 
none  whom  he  knew ;  which  somewhat  surprised  him,  for  he  had 
thought  himself  acquainted  with  every  one  in  the  country  round. 
Their  dress,  too,  was  of  a  different  fashion  from  that  to  which  he 
was  accustomed.  They  all  stared  at  him  with  equal  marks  of 
surprise,  and,  whenever  they  cast  their  eyes  upon  him,  invariably 
stroked  their  chins.  The  constant  recurrence  of  this  gesture  in- 
duced Rip  involuntarily  to  do  the  same,  when,  to  his  astonish- 
ment, he  found  his  beard  had  grown  a  foot  long. 

He  had  now  entered  the  skirts  of  the  village.  A  troop  of 
strange  children  ran  at  his  heels,  hooting  after  him,  and  pointing 
at  his  gray  beard.  The  dogs,  too,  not  one  of  which  he  recog- 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  141 

nized  for  an  old  acquaintance,  barked  at  him  as  he  passed.  The 
very  village  was  altered :  it  was  larger  and  more  populous. 
There  were  rows  of  houses  which  he  had  never  seen  before,  and 
those  which  had  been  his  familiar  haunts  had  disappeared. 
Strange  names  were  over  the  doors,  strange  faces  at  the  windows : 
everything  was  strange.  His  mind  now  misgave  him.  He  be- 
gan to  doubt  whether  both  he  and  the  world  around  him  were  not 
bewitched.  Surely  this  was  his  native  village,  which  he  had  left 
but  the  day  before.  There  stood  the  Catskill  Mountains ;  there 
ran  the  silver  Hudson  at  a  distance ;  there  was  every  hill  and 
dale  precisely  as  it  had  always  been.  Rip  was  sorely  perplexed. 
"  That  flagon  last  night,"  thought  he,  "  has  addled  my  poor  head 
sadly." 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  he  found  the  way  to  his  own 
house,  which  he  approached  with  silent  awe,  expecting  every 
moment  to  hear  the  shrill  voice  of  Dame  Van  Winkle.  He  found 
the  house  gone  to  decay,  —  the  roof  fallen  in,  the  windows  shat- 
tered, and  the  doors  off  the  hinges.  A  half-starved  dog  that 
looked  like  Wolf  was  skulking  about  it.  Rip  called  him  by  name ; 
but  the  cur  snarled,  showed  his  teeth,  and  passed  on.  This  was 
an  unkind  cut,  indeed.  "  My  very  dog,"  sighed  poor  Rip,  "  has 
forgotten  me ! " 

He  entered  the  house,  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  Dame  Van 
Winkle  had  always  kept  in  neat  order.  It  was  empty,  forlorn, 
and  apparently  abandoned.  This  desolateness  overcame  all  his 
connubial  fears.  He  called  loudly  for  his  wife  and  children :  the 
lonely  chambers  rang  for  a  moment  with  his  voice,  and  then  all 
again  was  silence. 

He  now  hurried  forth,  and  hastened  to  his  old  resort,  the  vil- 
lage inn ;  but  it,  too,  was  gone.  A  large,  rickety,  wooden  build- 
ing stood  in  its  place,  with  great,  gaping  windows,  some  of  them 
broken  and  mended  with  old  hats  and  petticoats ;  and  over  the 
door  was  painted,  "  The  Union  Hotel,  by  Jonathan  Doolittle." 
Instead  of  the  great  tree  that  used  to  shelter  the  quiet  little  Dutch 
inn  of  yore,  there  now  was  reared  a  tall,  naked  pole,  with  some- 


142  IRVING. 

thing  on  the  top  that  looked  like  a  red  night-cap ; l  and  from 
it  was  fluttering  a  flag,  on  which  was  a  singular  assemblage  of 
stars  and  stripes.  All  this  was  strange  and  incomprehensible. 
He  recognized  on  the  sign,  however,  the  ruby  face  of  King 
George,  under  which  he  had  smoked  so  many  a  peaceful  pipe ; 
but  even  this  was  singularly  metamorphosed.  The  red  coat  was 
changed  for  one  of  blue  and  buff,  a  sword  was  held  in  the  hand 
instead  of  a  scepter,  the  head  was  decorated  with  a  cocked  hat, 
and  underneath  was  painted  in  large  characters,  "  General  Wash- 
ington." 

There  was,  as  usual,  a  crowd  of  folk  about  the  door,  but  none 
that  Rip  recollected.  The  very  character  of  the  people  seemed 
changed.  There  was  a  busy,  bustling,  disputatious  tone  about  it, 
instead  of  the  accustomed  phlegm  and  drowsy  tranquillity.  He 
looked  in  vain  for  the  sage  Nicholas  Vedder,  with  his  broad  face, 
double  chin,  and  fair  long  pipe,  uttering  clouds  of  tobacco-smoke 
instead  of  idle  speeches ;  or  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster,  dol- 
ing forth  the  contents  of  an  ancient  newspaper.  In  place  of 
these,  a  lean,  bilious-looking  fellow,  with  his  pockets  full  of 
handbills,  was  haranguing  vehemently  about  the  rights  of  citizens, 
election,  members  of  Congress,  liberty,  Bunker's  Hill,2  heroes  of 
seventy-six,  and  other  words,  that  were  a  perfect  Babylonish 
jargon  to  the  bewildered  Van  Winkle. 

The  appearance  of  Rip,  with  his  long,  grizzled  beard,  his  rusty 
fowling-piece,  his  uncouth  dress,  and  the  army  of  women  and 
children  that  had  gathered  at  his  heels,  soon  attracted  the  atten- 
tion of  the  tavern  politicians.  They  crowded  round  him,  eying 


1  Cap  of  liberty  worn  in  the  Roman  states  by  manumitted  slaves.     It  was 
made  thus  according  to  a  coin  of  Brutus  after  the  death  of  Caesar,  and  worn 
by  Brutus  and  his  rebels,  as  a  token  of  their  republican  sentiment.     Its  shape 
was  copied  from  the  Phrygian  cap,  which  had  become  a  symbol  or  emblem 
of  personal  and  political  freedom. 

2  A  celebrated  height  in  Charlestown,  Mass,  (now  a  part  of  Boston),  fa- 
mous as  the  place  where  a  battle  was  fought  between  the  British  and  American 
forces  June  17,  1775. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  143 

him  from  head  to  foot  with  great  curiosity.  The  orator  bustled 
up  to  him,  and,  drawing  him  partly  aside,  inquired  on  which  side 
he  voted.  Rip  stared  in  vacant  stupidity.  Another  short  but 
busy  little  fellow  pulled  him  by  the  arm,  and,  rising  on  tiptoe, 
inquired  in  his  ear  whether  he  was  a  Federal  or  a  Democrat. 
Rip  was  equally  at  a  loss  to  comprehend  the  question,  when  a 
knowing,  self-important  old  gentleman  in  a  sharp  cocked  hat 
made  his  way  through  the  crowd,  putting  them  to  the  right  and 
left  with  his  elbows  as  he  passed,  and,  planting  himself  before 
Van  Winkle,  —  with  one  arm  akimbo,  the  other  resting  on  his 
cane ;  his  keen  eyes  and  sharp  hat  penetrating,  as  it  were,  into 
his  very  soul,  —  demanded  in  an  austere  tone  what  brought  him 
to  the  election  with  a  gun  on  his  shoulder  and  a  mob  at  his  heels, 
and  whether  he  meant  to  breed  a  riot  in  the  village.  "Alas! 
gentlemen,"  cried  Rip,  somewhat  dismayed,  "  I  am  a  poor,  quiet 
man,  a  native  of  the  place,  and  a  loyal  subject  to  the  King,  God 
bless  him!" 

Here  a  general  shout  burst  from  the  bystanders :  "  A  Tory,  a 
Tory!  A  spy!  A  refugee!  Hustle  him!  Away  with  him !"  It 
was  with  great  difficulty  that  the  self-important  man  in  the  cocked 
hat  restored  order,  and,  having  assumed  a  tenfold  austerity  of 
brow,  demanded  again  of  the  unknown  culprit  what  he  came 
there  for,  and  whom  he  was  seeking.  The  poor  man  humbly 
assured  him  that  he  meant  no  harm,  but  merely  came  there  in 
search  of  some  of  his  neighbors,  who  used  to  keep  about  the  tavern. 

"  Well,  who  are  they?     Name  them." 

Rip  bethought  himself  a  moment,  and  inquired,  "Where's 
Nicholas  Vedder?  " 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  little  while,  when  an  old  man  replied 
in  a  thin,  piping  voice,  "  Nicholas  Vedder !  Why,  he  is  dead  and 
gone  these  eighteen  years !  There  was  a  wooden  tombstone  in 
the  churchyard  that  used  to  tell  all  about  him,  but  that's  rotten 
and  gone,  too." 

"Where's  Brom  Dutcher?  " 

"  Oh,  he  went  off  to  the  army  in  the  beginning  of  the  war. 


144  IRVING. 

Some  say  he  was  killed  at  the  storming  of  Stony  Point ; 1  others 
say  he  was  drowned  in  the  squall  at  the  foot  of  Anthony's  Nose.2 
I  don't  know :  he  never  came  back  again." 

"  Where's  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster?  " 

"  He  went  off  to  the  wars,  too,  was  a  great  militia  general,  and 
is  now  in  Congress." 

Rip's  heart  died  away  at  hearing  of  these  sad  changes  in  his 
home  and  friends,  and  finding  himself  thus  alone  in  the  world. 
Every  answer  puzzled  him,  too,  by  treating  of  such  enormous 
lapses  of  time,  and  of  matters  which  he  could  not  understand, — 
war,  Congress,  Stony  Point.  He  had  no  courage  to  ask  after 
any  more  friends,  but  cried  out  in  despair,  "  Does  nobody  here 
know  Rip  Van  Winkle?  " 

"Oh,  Rip  Van  Winkle!"  exclaimed  two  or  three.  "Oh,  to 
be  sure!  that's  Rip  Van  Winkle  yonder,  leaning  against  the 
tree." 

Rip  looked,  and  beheld  a  precise  counterpart  of  himself,  as  he 
went  up  the  mountain,  apparently  as  lazy,  and  certainly  as  rag- 
ged. The  poor  fellow  was  now  completely  confounded.  He 
doubted  his  own  identity,  and  whether  he  was  himself  or  another 
man.  In  the  midst  of  his  bewilderment,  the  man  in  the  cocked 
hat  demanded  who  he  was,  and  what  was  his  name. 

"  God  knows!  "  exclaimed  he,  at  his  wits'  end.  "  I'm  not  my- 
self :  I'm  somebody  else.  That's  me  yonder.  No,  that's  some- 
body else  got  into  my  shoes.  I  was  myself  last  night :  but  I  fell 
asleep  on  the  mountain ;  and  they've  changed  my  gun ;  and 
everything's  changed  ;  and  I'm  changed  ;  and  I  can't  tell  what's 
my  name,  or  who  I  am! "  4 

The  bystanders  began  now  to  look  at  each  other,  nod,  wink 

1  The  well-known    promontory  on  the  Hudson  River,   forty-two   miles 
north  of  New  York,  where,  July  16,  1779,  Gen.  "  Mad  Anthony"  Wayne 
took  by  storm  the  fort  upon  its  rocky  heights. 

2  Anthony's  or  St.  Anthony's  Nose  is  a  headland  fifty-seven  miles  from 
New  York,  on  the  east  side  of  the  Hudson,  in  Putnam  County.     Jt  juts  from 
the  south  side  of  Breakneck  Hill  at  the  north  entrance  of  the  Highlands. 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK.  145 

significantly,  and  tap  their  fingers  against  their  foreheads.  There 
was  a  whisper,  also,  about  securing  the  gun,  and  keeping  the  old 
fellow  from  doing  mischief,  at  the  very  suggestion  of  which  the 
self-important  man  in  the  cocked  hat  retired  with  some  precipita- 
tion. At  this  critical  moment  a  fresh,  comely  woman  pressed 
through  the  throng  to  get  a  peep  at  the  gray-bearded  man.  She 
had  a  chubby  child  in  her  arms,  which,  frightened  at  his  looks, 
began  to  cry.  "  Hush,  Rip !  "  cried  she.  "  Hush,  you  little  fool ! 
The  old  man  won't  hurt  you." 

The  name  of  the  child,  the  air  of  the  mother,  the  tone  of  her 
voice,  all  awakened  a  train  of  recollections  in  his  mind.  "  What 
is  your  name,  my  good  woman?  "  asked  he. 

"Judith  Gardenier." 

"And  your  father's  name?  " 

''Ah,  poor  man,  his  name  was  Rip  Van  Winkle.  It's  twenty 
years  since  he  went  away  from  home  with  his  gun,  and  never 
has  been  heard  of  since.  His  dog  came  home  without  him ;  but 
whether  he  shot  himself,  or  was  carried  away  by  the  Indians,  no- 
body can  tell.  I  was  then  but  a  little  girl." 

Rip  had  but  one  question  more  to  ask,  but  he  put  it  with  a 
faltering  voice :  — 

"  Where's  your  mother?  " 

Oh,  she  too  had  died  but  a  short  time  since.  She  broke  a 
blood-vessel  in  a  fit  of  passion  at  a  New  England  peddler. 

There  was  a  drop  of  comfort,  at  least,  in  this  intelligence.  The 
honest  man  could  contain  himself  no  longer.  He  caught  his 
daughter  and  her  child  in  his  arms.  "  I  am  your  father!  "  cried 
he, —  "young  Rip  Van  Winkle  once,  old  Rip  Van  Winkle  now! 
Does  nobody  know  poor  Rip  Van  Winkle?  " 

All  stood  amazed,  until  an  old  woman,  tottering  out  from 
among  the  crowd,  put  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and,  peering  under 
it  in  his  face  for  a  moment,  exclaimed,  "  Sure  enough !  It  is  Rip 
Van  Winkle!  It  is  himself!  Welcome  home  again,  old  neigh- 
bor! Why,  where  have  you  been  these  twenty  long  years?  " 

Rip's  story  was  soon  told,  for  the  whole  twenty  years  had  been 


146  IRVING. 

to  him  but  as  one  night.  The  neighbors  stared  when  they  heard 
it.  Some  were  seen  to  wink  at  each  other,  and  put  their  tongues 
in  their  cheeks ;  and  the  self-important  man  in  the  cocked  hat, 
who,  when  the  alarm  was  over,  had  returned  to  the  field,  screwed 
down  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  and  shook  his  head,  upon  which 
there  was  a  general  shaking  of  the  head  throughout  the 'assem- 
blage. 

It  was  determined,  however,  to  take  the  opinion  of  old  Peter 
Vanderdonk,  who  was  seen  slowly  advancing  up  the  road.  He 
was  a  descendant  of  the  historian  of  that  name,  who  wrote  one 
of  the  earliest  accounts  of  the  province.  Peter  was  the  most  an- 
cient inhabitant  of  the  village,  and  well  versed  in  all  the  wonder- 
ful events  and  traditions  of  the  neighborhood.  He  recollected 
Rip  at  once,  and  corroborated  his  story  in  the  most  satisfactory 
manner.  He  assured  the  company  that  it  was  a  fact,  handed 
down  from  his  ancestor  the  historian,  that  the  Catskill  Mountains 
had  always  been  haunted  by  strange  beings  ;  that  it  was  affirmed 
that  the  great  Hendrick  Hudson,1  the  first  discoverer  of  the  river 
and  country,  kept  a  kind  of  vigil  there  every  twenty  years,  with  his 
crew  of  the  Half-moon,2  being  permitted  in  this  way  to  revisit  the 
scenes  of  his  enterprise,  and  keep  a  guardian  eye  upon  the  river, 
and  the  great  city  called  by  his  name ;  that  his  father  had  once 
seen  them  in  their  old  Dutch  dresses,  playing  at  ninepins  in  the  hol- 
low of  the  mountain  ;  and  that  he  himself  had  heard,  one  summer 
afternoon,  the  sound  of  their  balls,  like  distant  peals  of  thunder. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  company  broke  up,  and  re- 
turned to  the  more  important  concerns  of  the  election.  Rip's 
daughter  took  him  home  to  live  with  her.  She  had  a  snug,  well- 
furnished  house,  and  a  stout,  cheery  farmer  for  a  husband,  whom 
Rip  recollected  for  one  of  the  urchins  that  used  to  climb  upon  his 
back.  As  to  Rip's  son  and  heir,  who  was  the  ditto  of  himself, 
seen  leaning  against  the  tree,  he  was  employed  to  work  on  the 
farm,  but  evinced  an  hereditary  disposition  to  attend  to  anything 
else  but  his  business. 

1  See  Note  i,  p.  96.  2  Hendrick  Hudson's  ship. 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK.  147 

Rip  now  resumed  his  old  walks  and  habits.  He  soon  found 
many  of  his  former  cronies,  though  all  rather  the  worse  for  the 
wear  and  tear  of  time,  and  preferred  making  friends  among  the 
rising  generation,  with  whom  he  soon  grew  into  great  favor. 

Having  nothing  to  do  at  home,  and  being  arrived  at  that 
happy  age  when  a  man  can  do  nothing  with  impunity,  he  took  his 
place  once  more  on  the  bench  at  the  inn  door,  and  was  rever- 
enced as  one  of  the  patriarchs  of  the  village,  and  a  chronicle  of 
the  old  times  "  before  the  war."  It  was  some  time  before  he 
could  get  into  the  regular  track  of  gossip,  or  could  be  made  to 
comprehend  the  strange  events  that  had  taken  place  during  his 
torpor,  —  how  that  there  had  been  a  revolutionary  war ;  that  the 
country  had  thrown  off  the  yoke  of  old  England,  and  that,  in- 
stead of  being  a  subject  of  his  Majesty  George  III.,  he  was  now 
a  free  citizen  of  the  United  States.  Rip,  in  fact,  was  no  politi- 
cian, —  the  changes  of  states  and  empires  made  but  little  impres- 
sion on  him,  —  but  there  was  one  species  of  despotism  under 
which  he  had  long  groaned,  and  that  was,  petticoat  govern- 
ment. Happily,  that  was  at  an  end.  He  had  got  his  neck  out 
of  the  yoke  of  matrimony,  and  could  go  in  and  out  whenever 
he  pleased,  without  dreading  the  tyranny  of  Dame  Van  Winkle. 
Whenever  her  name  was  mentioned,  however,  he  shook  his  head, 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  cast  up  his  eyes ;  which  might  pass 
either  for  an  expression  of  resignation  to  his  fate,  or  joy  at  his 
deliverance. 

He  used  to  tell  his  story  to  every  stranger  that  arrived  at  Mr. 
Doolittle's  hotel.  He  was  observed  at  first  to  vary  on  some 
points  every  time  he  told  it,  which  was  doubtless  owing  to  his 
having  so  recently  awaked.  It  at  last  settled  down  precisely  to 
the  tale  I  have  related ;  and  not  a  man,  woman,  or  child  in  the 
neighborhood  but  knew  it  by  heart.  Some  always  pretended  to 
doubt  the  reality  of  it,  and  insisted  that  Rip  had  been  out  of  his 
head,  and  that  this  was  one  point  on  which  he  always  remained 
flighty.  The  old  Dutch  inhabitants,  however,  almost  universally 
gave  it  full  credit.  Even  to  this  day  they  never  hear  a  thunder- 


148  IRVING. 

storm  of  a  summer  afternoon  about  the  Catskill,  but  they  say 
Hendrick  Hudson  and  his  crew  are  at  their  game  of  ninepins ; 
and  it  is  a  common  wish  of  all  hen-pecked  husbands  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, when  life  hangs  heavy  on  their  hands,  that  they  might 
have  a  quieting  draught  out  of  Rip  Van  Winkle's  flagon. 

NOTE. 

THE  foregoing  tale,  one  would  suspect,  had  been  suggested  to  Mr.  Knicker- 
bocker by  a  little  German  superstition  about  the  Emperor  Frederick  der  Roth- 
bart  and  the  Kyphauser  Mountain ;  the  subjoined  note,  however,  which  he 
had  appended  to  the  tale,  shows  that  it  is  an  absolute  fact,  narrated  with  his 
usual  fidelity. 

"The  story  of  Rip  Van  Winkle  may  seem  incredible  to  many;  but  nev- 
ertheless I  give  it  my  full  belief,  for  I  know  the  vicinity  of  our  old  Dutch 
settlements  to  have  been  very  subject  to  marvelous  events  and  appearances. 
Indeed,  I  have  heard  many  stranger  stories  than  this,  in  the  villages  along 
the  Hudson,  all  of  which  were  too  well  authenticated  to  admit  of  a  doubt. 
I  have  even  talked  with  Rip  Van  Winkle  myself,  who,  when  last  I  saw  him, 
was  a  very  venerable  old  man,  and  so  perfectly  rational  and  consistent  on 
every  other  point,  that  I  think  no  conscientious  person  could  refuse  to  take 
this  into  the  bargain ;  nay,  I  have  seen  a  certificate  on  the  subject  taken  be- 
fore a  country  justice  and  signed  with  a  cross,  in  the  justice's  own  handwrit- 
ing. The  story,  therefore,  is  beyond  the  possibility  of  doubt." 

POSTSCRIPT. 

The  following  are  traveling  notes  from  a  memorandum-book  of  Mr. 
Knickerbocker :  — 

"  The  Kaatsberg,  or  Catskill  Mountains,  have  always  been  a  region  full 
of  fable.  The  Indians  considered  them  the  abode  of  spirits,  who  influenced 
the  weather,  spreading  sunshine  or  clouds  over  the  landscape,  and  sending 
good  or  bad  hunting  seasons.  They  were  ruled  by  an  old  squaw  spirit,  said 
to  be  their  mother.  She  dwelt  on  the  highest  peak  of  the  Catskills,  and  had 
charge  of  the  doors  of  day  and  night  to  open  and  shut  them  at  the  proper 
hour.  She  hung  up  the  new  moons  in  the  skies,  and  cut  up  the  old  ones  into 
stars.  In  times  of  drought,  if  properly  propitiated,  she  would  spin  light 
summer  clouds  out  of  cobwebs  and  morning  dew,  and  send  them  off  from  the 
crest  of  the  mountain,  flake  after  flake,  like  flakes  of  carded  cotton,  to  float  in 
the  air;  until,  dissolved  by  the  heat  of  the  sun,  they  would  fall  in  gentle 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK.  149 

showers,  causing  the  grass  to  spring,  the  fruits  to  ripen,  and  the  corn  to  grow 
an  inch  an  hour.  If  displeased,  however,  she  would  brew  up  clouds  black  as 
ink,  sitting  in  the  midst  of  them  like  a  bottle-bellied  spider  in  the  midst  of 
its  web ;  and  when  these  clouds  broke,  woe  betide  the  valleys ! 

"  In  old  times,  say  the  Indian  traditions,  there  was  a  kind  of  Monitou,  or 
Spirit,  who  kept  about  the  wildest  recesses  of  the  Catskill  Mountains,  and 
took  a  mischievous  pleasure  in  wreaking  all  kinds  of  evils  and  vexations  upon 
the  redmen.  Sometimes  he  would  assume  the  form  of  a  bear,  a  panther,  or 
a  deer,  lead  the  bewildered  hunter  a  weary  chase  through  tangled  forests  and 
among  ragged  rocks,  and  then  spring  off  with  a  loud  '  ho,  ho!'  leaving  him 
aghast  on  the  brink  of  a  beetling  precipice  or  raging  torrent." 


ECLECTIC  ENGLISH  CLASSICS 


THE  ORATIONS  ON 

BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT 
THE  CHARACTER  OF  WASHINGTON 
AND  THE  LANDING  AT  PLYMOUTH 


BY 

DANIEL  WEBSTER 


NEW  YORK  •  I  •  CINCINNATI   •  I  -  CHICAGO 

AMERICAN   BOOK  COMPANY 


Copyright,  7894,  by 
AMERICAN  BOOK  COMPANY. 


WEBSTER'S  ORATIONS  EC.  ENG.  CLAS. 


Printed  by  permission  of  MESSRS.  LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  Co., 
the  authorized  publishers  of  Webster's  works. 


INTRODUCTION. 


IT  is  a  fact  worthy  of  notice  that,  among  all  the  masters  of  elo- 
quence known  to  history,  only  four  have  produced  works  which 
have  been  generally  recognized  as  contributions  to  the  perma- 
nent literature  of  the  world.  These  were  Demosthenes  in  an- 
cient Athens,  Cicero  in  old  Rome,  Edmund  Burke  in  Great 
Britain,  and  Daniel  Webstei  in  America.  A  comparison  of  the 
public  discourses  of  these  four  great  orators  reveals,  of  course, 
many  differences  resulting  from  the  diversity  of  race,  time,  cir- 
cumstance, and  the  character  of  the  audiences  to  whom  they 
were  addressed.  A  closer  examination,  however,  will  disclose 
numerous  similarities  in  their  fundamental  construction,  going 
far  to  show  that  the  principles  of  true  eloquence  are  always  and 
everywhere  the  same,  and  that  the  art  which  swayed  the  minds 
of  multitudes  of  men  twenty  centuries  ago  remains  in  essential 
points  as  unchanged  as  human  thought  itself.  Between  the  ora- 
tions of  Demosthenes,  so  distinctively  ancient  and  Grecian,  and 
those  of  Webster,  so  distinctively  modern  and  American,  one 
may  detect  a  striking  resemblance.  Both  are  characterized  by 
the  same  sustained  appeal  to  the  understanding  and  by  the 
same  clear-cut,  vigorous,  and  perfectly  intelligible  course  of  rea- 
soning. In  their  unadorned  simplicity  each  is  the  work  of  a 
sculptor  rather  than  painter.  "  To  test  Webster's  oratory,  which 

5 


6  INTROD  UC  TION. 

has  ever  been  very  attractive  to  me,"  said  the  late  Dr.  Francis 
Lieber,  "  I  read  a  portion  of  my  favorite  speeches  of  Demos- 
thenes, and  then  read,  always  aloud,  parts  of  Webster ;  then  re- 
turned to  the  Athenian  :  and  Webster  stood  the  test."  This  re- 
semblance was  not  the  result  of  any  study  of  ancient  models  on 
Mr.  Webster's  part,  nor  of  any  conscious  or  unconscious  effort 
to  imitate  the  masterpieces  of  Athenian  eloquence.  It  was  due 
rather  to  a  similarity  of  intellectual  powers  wholly  independent 
of  time,  or  race,  or  other  environment. 

The  quality  of  Webster's  imagination,  which  was  of  an  histori- 
cal rather  than  poetic  cast,  had  much  to  do  with  the  power  and 
peculiar  charm  of  his  oratory.  But  it  was  his  simplicity  of  dic- 
tion, and  his  perfect  mastery  of  pure,  idiomatic  English,  which 
gave  to  his  discourses  their  distinctive  classic  elegance,  and  made 
them  worthy  of  a  permanent  place  in  our  literature.  As  speci- 
mens, therefore,  of  a  correct,  clear,  and  vigorous  style  of  com- 
position, full  of  warmth  and  vitality,  these  orations  are  worthy 
of  the  most  careful  attention  of  every  one  who  would  perfect  him- 
self in  the  use  of  the  English  tongue ;  as  notable  examples  of 
persuasive  discourse,  logical,  forcible,  and  convincing,  they  es- 
pecially commend  themselves  to  those  who  aspire  to  distinction 
as  public  speakers ;  as  containing  lessons  of  the  purest  and  most 
disinterested  patriotism,  they  appeal  to  Americans  everywhere, 
and  should  be  read  and  studied  by  every  American  youth. 

Daniel  Webster  was  born  in  Salisbury  (now  Franklin),  N.H., 
Jan.  18,  1782.  His  father,  who  was  a  farmer,  had  served  as 
a  soldier  in  both  the  French  and  Indian  and  the  Revolution- 
ary Wars,  and  later  became  a  member  of  the  State  Legis- 
lature, and  judge  of  the  county  court.  Being  brought  up  in 
poverty,  in  a  region  at  that  time  the  very  outskirts  of  civiliza- 


INTRODUCTION.  ^ 

tion,  the  boy  had  none  of  the  opportunities  which  are  now  sup- 
posed to  be  indispensable  to  the  making  of  a  great  man.  His 
mother  taught  him  to  read,  and  as  the  schools  which  he  attended 
during  his  childhood  were  extremely  inefficient,  it  is  probable 
that  the  best  part  of  his  early  education  was  acquired  at  home. 
Being  a  delicate  child,  he  was  generally  exempt  from  the  hard 
tasks  required  of  other  boys  in  his  condition  of  life,  and,  while 
much  of  his  time  was  devoted  to  play,  he  developed  a  passionate 
eagerness  for  books.  "  I  read  what  I  could  get  to  read,"  he 
says,  "  went  to  school  when  I  could,  and  when  not  at  school  was 
a  farmer's  youngest  boy,  not  good  for  much,  for  want  of  health 
and  strength,  but  expected  to  do  something.  In  those  boyish 
days  there  were  two  things  which  I  did  dearly  love, — reading  and 
playing,  passions  which  did  not  cease  to  struggle  when  boyhood 
was  over,  (have  they  yet  altogether  ?)  and  in  regard  to  which 
neither  cita  mors  nor  the  victoria  laeta  could  be  said  of  either." 

When  fourteen  years  of  age,  he  was  sent  to  the  Phillips  Exeter 
Academy.  There  he  made  his  first  acquaintance  with  the  world, 
suffering  much  from  the  ridicule  of  his  schoolmates,  to  whom  his 
rustic  clothes  and  uncouth  manners  were  a  source  of  great  mer- 
riment. Although  he  made  rapid  progress  in  his  studies,  his  lack 
of  self-confidence  was  such,  that  he  found  it  impossible  to  stand 
up  and  "  speak  a  piece  "  before  the  school.  At  the  end  of  nine 
months  it  was  thought  best  that  he  should  return  home ;  and  his 
father  made  arrangements  whereby  he  should  continue  his  studies 
under  the  tuition  of  a  clergyman,  the  Rev.  Samuel  Wood,  at 
Boscawen.  This  change  was  made  in  order  that  the  lad  might 
the  more  quickly  complete  his  preparation  for  college ;  for,  not- 
withstanding the  poverty  of  the  family,  his  father  had  decided 
to  give  him  as  thorough  an  education  as  was  then  available.  He 


8  INTRODUCTION. 

remained  with  Dr.  Wood  only  six  months,  and  in  August,  1797, 
contrived  to  enter  Dartmouth  College,  from  which  he  was  duly 
graduated  in  1801.  The  college  was  at  that  time  scarcely  equal 
in  efficiency  to  any  well-equipped  high  school  of  the  present  day  ; 
and  Webster's  scholarship  was  neither  extensive  nor  profound. 
He  read  everything  that  came  to  hand,  and  whatever  was  worthy 
of  remembrance  he  never  forgot.  He  acquired  a  fair  knowledge 
of  Latin  literature,  and  gained  a  smattering  of  Greek  and  mathe- 
matics. He  was  not  only  considered  the  best  general  scholar  in 
the  college,  but  he  was  looked  upon  by  both  the  faculty  and  the 
students  as  a  remarkable  man  with  an  extraordinary  career  before 
him.  He  soon  overcame  the  boyish  timidity  which  had  been  so 
much  in  his  way  at  Exeter,  and  developed  an  especial  inclination 
for  public  speaking.  Indeed,  the  fame  of  his  eloquence  extended 
beyond  the  college  walls  ;  and  in  1800  he  was  invited  by  the  towns- 
people of  Hanover  to  deliver  the  Fourth-of-July  oration  in  their 
village.  He  had  not  then  completed  his  eighteenth  year ;  yet  in 
that  youthful  speech,  his  first  public  utterance  on  questions  of  na- 
tional import,  there  was  a  distinct  foreshadowing  of  the  enduring 
work  which  he  was  afterwards  to  perform  for  his  countrymen  and 
the  world.  It  was,  of  course,  crude  and  imitative,  as  would  be  ex- 
pected of  a  boy ;  its  language  was  florid  in  the  extreme,  and  its 
general  style  was  that  of  the  "  spread  eagle,"  full  of  bombast  and 
figures  of  rhetoric ;  but  in  its  thought  and  leading  purpose  there 
breathed  the  same  manly,  patriotic  spirit  that  runs  through  all 
his  maturer  utterances,  and  distinguishes  them  from  the  com- 
monplace oratory  of  political  demagogues. 

Immediately  after  leaving  college,  Mr.  Webster  began  the 
study  of  law  in  the  office  of  Thomas  W.  Thompson  of  Salis- 
bury;  but,  wishing  to  earn  money  to  help  his  elder  brother 


INTRODUCTION.  9 

Ezekiel  to  go  through  college,  he  soon  afterwards  went  to  Frye- 
burg,  Me.,  and  took  charge  of  a  small  academy  there.  In  the 
following  year  he  returned  to  Salisbury,  and  remained  with  Mr. 
Thompson  until  1 804 ;  then,  desiring  better  opportunities  for 
extending  his  legal  knowledge,  he  went  to  Boston,  where  he  en- 
tered the  office  of  Christopher  Gore,  and  where,  in  1805,  he  was 
admitted  to  the  bar.  He  began  practicing  in  Boscawen ;  and  in 
1807,  having  built  up  a  fairly  good  business  there,  he  turned  it 
over  to  his  brother  Ezekiel,  and  removed  to  Portsmouth,  then 
the  capital  of  the  State.  Being  now  fairly  established  in  his  pro- 
fession, he  was  married  in  1808  to  Grace  Fletcher  of  Hopkin- 
ton.  He  soon  distinguished  himself  as  the  foremost  lawyer  in 
the  State,  and  attracted  much  attention  by  his  eloquent  utter- 
ances in  opposing  the  declaration  of  war  against  Great  Britain. 
In  1812  he  was  elected  to  Congress  by  the  Federalists,  and  on 
taking  his  seat  was  placed  on  the  Committee  on  Foreign  Affairs. 
The  first  public  act  which  brought  him  into  prominence  as  a 
member  of  Congress  was  his  introduction  of  a  series  of  resolu- 
tions calling  for  an  inquiry  concerning  the  announcement  to  the 
United  States  of  the  revocation  of  Napoleon's  decrees  against 
American  shipping.  This  was  followed  a  few  months  later  by 
his  first  great  speech  in  the  House,  —  a  speech  in  opposition 
to  a  bill  for  the  encouragement  of  enlistments.  In  1814  he 
was  reelected  to  Congress;  and  in  1816,  at  the  expiration  of  his 
second  term,  he  removed  to  Boston,  where  for  seven  years  he 
devoted  himself  exclusively  to  the  practice  of  his  profession.  In 
1818,  by  his  management  of  the  celebrated  Dartmouth  College 
case,  he  achieved  a  success  which  not  only  placed  him  at  the 
head  of  the  American  bar,  but  gave  him  great  prominence  as  an 
able  exponent  and  uncompromising  defender  of  the  Federal  Con- 


I  o  INTR  OD  UC  7^1  ON. 

stitution.  The  Legislature  of  New  Hampshire  had  passed  an  act 
virtually  abrogating  the  original  charter  of  the  college,  and  pro- 
viding for  the  appointment  of  a  new  board  of  trustees.  The  old 
board  contested  the  legality  of  this  act ;  and  a  suit  against  the 
new  board,  in  action  of  trover  for  the  college  seal,  was  carried 
to  the  Superior  Court  of  the  State,  where  it  was  decided  in  favor 
of  the  defendants.  Thereupon  the  case  was  carried  to  the  Su- 
preme Court  of  the  United  States,  where,  through  Mr.  Webster's 
management,  the  judgment  of  the  State  court  was  reversed,  and 
the  act  of  the  State  Legislature  was  declared  to  be  a  violation  of 
that  clause  of  the  Federal  Constitution  which  prohibits  the  States 
from  passing  laws  in  impairment  of  contracts.  The  decision 
was  of  national  importance,  since  it  "  went  further,  perhaps,  than 
any  other  in  our  history  towards  limiting  State  sovereignty,  and 
extending  the  jurisdiction  of  the  Federal  Supreme  Court." 

On  Dec.  22,  1820,  the  two  hundredth  anniversary  of  the 
landing  of  the  Pilgrims,  Mr.  Webster  delivered  his  famous  dis- 
course on  the  "  First  Settlement  of  New  England,"  —  the  first  of 
those  great  efforts  which  placed  him  among  the  foremost  orators 
of  the  world.  In  1822  he  was  again  elected  a  representative  to 
Congress,  this  time  from  Boston;  and  in  1824  and  1826  he  was 
reflected.  In  1827  he  resigned  his  membership  in  the  House  to 
accept  a  seat  in  the  Senate,  where  he  remained,  by  successive 
reelections,  until  1841.  His  oration  on  the  laying  of  the  corner 
stone  of  Bunker  Hill  Monument,  in  1825,  and  that  on  Adams 
and  Jefferson  (1826),  are  among  the  noblest  historical  addresses 
ever  delivered.  "The  spirit  of  these  orations  is  that  of  the 
broadest  patriotism  enlightened  by  a  clear  perception  of  the 
fundamental  importance  of  the  Federal  union  between  the  States, 
and  an  ever-present  consciousness  of  the  mighty  future  of  our 


INTRODUCTION.  II 

country,  and  its  moral  significance  in  the  history  of  the  world." 
In  the  Bunker  Hill  oration  he  appeared  at  his  best.  His  style 
had  been  perfected,  and  he  "  touched  his  highest  point  in  the 
difficult  task  of  commemorative  oratory."  Eighteen  years  later, 
upon  the  completion  of  the  monument,  he  was  called  upon  to 
deliver  a  second  address  at  the  same  place  and  upon  the  same 
theme.  This  later  effort,  although  it  failed  to  attain  to  the  mas- 
sive dignity  and  grandeur  of  the  first,  must  always  be  regarded  as 
one  of  the  finest  examples  of  patriotic  oratory  to  which  Americans 
have  ever  listened. 

From  the  beginning  of  his  career  in  the  United  States  Senate, 
Mr.  Webster  was  naturally  recognized  as  one  of  the  most  influ- 
ential men  in  the  nation,  and,  had  he  been  more  distinctively  a 
partisan,  it  is  not  improbable  that  he  would  eventually  have 
occupied  the  President's  chair.  But  his  patriotism  was  superior 
to  personal  ambition ;  and  his  powers  as  a  statesman  and  orator, 
instead  of  being  directed  to  the  aggrandizement  of  the  party  with 
which  he  was  affiliated,  were  devoted  to  the  defense  of  the  Con- 
stitution and  the  preservation  of  the  Union.  In  1830  he  de- 
livered his  celebrated  second  speech  on  Foote's  resolution,  gen- 
erally known  as  the  "  Reply  to  Hayne,"  in  which  he  reached  the 
culmination  of  his  career  as  an  orator.  It  was  delivered  in  refu- 
tation of  a  speech  by  Mr.  Hayne  accusing  the  New-England 
States  of  attempting  to  aggrandize  themselves  at  the  expense  of 
all  the  rest  of  the  Union,  and  defending  South  Carolina  in  her 
proposed  policy  of  nullification.  Although  Mr.  Webster's  fame 
extended  in  the  years  which  followed,  and  he  made  many  other 
speeches,  he  never  again  attained  to  so  high  a  point  as  in  that 
remarkable  and  memorable  discourse.  It  was  a  speech  for 
which,  as  he  himself  said,  his  whole  life  had  been  in  a  certain 


12  INTRODUCTION. 

sense  a  preparation.  Of  all  the  speeches  ever  made  in  Congress 
there  has  probably  never  been  another  that  has  been  so  widely 
read,  or  has  had  so  great  influence  in  the  shaping  of  men's 
thoughts.  In  1841  Mr.  Webster  was  appointed  Secretary  of 
State  by  President  Harrison,  and  upon  the  death  of  the  latter  he 
was  continued  in  office  by  President  Tyler  until  after  the  com- 
pletion of  the  famous  Ashburton  Treaty  with  Great  Britain,  in 
1842.  He  then  returned  to  the  practice  of  law  in  Boston  ;  but  in 
1844  he  was  again  appointed  to  the  Senate,  where  he  distin- 
guished himself  by  opposing  the  admission  of  Texas  as  a  slave 
State,  and  strenuously  combating  the  prosecution  of  the  Mexican 
War.  In  1848  and  again  in  1852  he  was  a  candidate  before  the 
national  convention  of  Whigs  for  the  nomination  to  the  Presi- 
dency, but  was  defeated  in  the  first  case  by  General  Taylor  and 
in  the  second  by  General  Scott.  In  1850,  led  by  a  zealous  desire 
to  promote  peace  between  the  opposing  political  factions,  he  was 
induced  to  give  his  adhesion  to  Clay's  "  compromise  measures," 
and  on  the  yth  of  March  delivered  his  last  great  speech,  —  a 
speech  in  which  he  favored  the  enforcement  of  the  Fugitive  Slave 
Law,  and  opposed  the  Wilmot  Proviso  for  the  exclusion  of  slav- 
ery from  the  new  Territories  thereafter  acquired  by  the  United 
States.  This  speech  was  a  great  disappointment  to  his  friends, 
and  lost  him  the  support  and  confidence  of  the  Whig  party.  In 
the  latter  part  of  the  same  year,  however,  he  was  appointed  Sec- 
retary of  State  by  President  Fillmore.  This  position  he  held  un- 
til May,  1852,  when  he  resigned  on  account  of  ill  health,  and 
retired  to  his  home  at  Marshfield,  Mass.,  where  he  died  on  the 
24th  of  October  in  the  same  year. 

In  the  great  influence  which  Mr.  Webster,  as  a  public  speaker, 
wielded  over  the  minds  of  his  hearers,  he  was  aided  by  his  re- 


INTRODUCTION.  13 

markable  physical  attributes.  He  possessed  in  a  wonderful  de- 
gree an  indefinable  personal  magnetism  which  impressed  every 
one  with  a  sense  of  his  greatness.  His  face,  his  eyes,  his  voice, 
were  such  that  whoever  looked  upon  him  and  heard  him  speak, 
felt  intuitively  that  he  was  a  man  of  most  extraordinary  powers. 
Sydney  Smith,  when  he  saw  him,  exclaimed,  "  Good  heavens!  he 
is  a  small  cathedral  by  himself ;  "  and  Carlyle,  writing  of  him, 
said,  "He  is  a  magnificent  specimen.  As  a  logic  fencer  or 
parliamentary  Hercules,  one  would  incline  to  back  him  at  first 
sight  against  all  the  extant  world.  The  tanned  complexion ;  the 
amorphous  crag-like  face  ;  the  dull  black  eyes  under  the  precipice 
of  brows,  like  dull  anthracite  furnaces  needing  only  to  be  blown ; 
the  mastiff  mouth  accurately  closed,  —  I  have  not  traced  so  much 
of  silent  Berserker  rage  that  I  remember  of  in  any  man." 

Of  the  quality  of  Webster's  oratory,  the  Hon.  Rufus  Choate 
says,  "  His  multiform  eloquence  became  at  once  so  much  acces- 
sion to  permanent  literature,  in  the  strictest  sense  solid,  attractive, 
and  rich.  Recall  what  pervaded  all  these  forms  of  display,  and 
every  effort  in  every  form :  that  union  of  naked  intellect,  in  its 
largest  measure,  which  penetrates  to  the  exact  truth  of  the  matter 
in  hand  by  intuition  or  by  inference,  and  discerns  everything 
which  may  make  it  intelligible,  probable,  and  credible  to  an- 
other, with  an  emotional  and  moral  nature  profound,  passionate, 
and  ready  to  kindle,  and  with  imagination  enough  to  supply  a 
hundredfold  more  of  illustration  and  aggrandizement  than  his 
taste  suffered  him  to  accept ;  that  union  of  greatness  of  soul  with 
depth  of  heart  which  made  his  speaking  almost  more  an  exhibi- 
tion of  character  than  of  mere  genius ;  the  style  not  merely  pure, 
clear  Saxon,  but  so  constructed,  so  numerous  as  far  as  becomes 
prose,  so  forcible,  so  abounding  in  unlabored  felicities,  the  words 


14  INTRODUCTION. 

so  choice,  the  epithet  so  pictured,  the  matter  absolute  truth,  or 
the  most  exact  and  spacious  resemblance  the  human  wit  can  de- 
vise ;  the  treatment  of  the  subject,  if  you  have  regard  to  the  kind 
of  truth  he  had  to  handle, — political,  ethical,  legal,  —  as  deep 
as  Paley's,  or  Locke's,  or  Butler's,  .  .  .  yet  that  depth  and 
that  completeness  of  sense  made  transparent  as  crystal  waters, 
raised  on  winged  language,  vivified,  fused,  and  poured  along  in 
a  tide  of  emotion  fervid,  and  incapable  to  be  withstood." 

The  history  of  Bunker  Hill  Monument  and  of  the  circum- 
stances attending  the  delivery  of  Webster's  famous  orations — 
the  one  at  the  laying  of  its  corner  stone,  the  other  at  its  comple- 
tion—  may  be  briefly  narrated. 

Gen.  Joseph  Warren,  the  hero  of  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill, 
and  the  first  prominent  martyr  of  the  Revolutionary  War,  was 
buried  upon  the  hill  on  the  day  following  the  action,  June  18, 
1775.  Early  in  the  following  year  the  Massachusetts  Lodge  of 
Masons,  of  which  he  had  been  the  presiding  officer,  applied  to 
the  Provisional  Government  of  the  Colony  for  permission  to  take 
up  his  remains,  and  inter  them  with  the  usual  ceremonies  and 
solemnities  of  the  order.  The  request  was  granted,  on  condition 
that  nothing  should  be  done  that  would  prevent  the  government 
from  erecting  at  some  future  time  a  monument  to  his  memory. 
This  may  be  regarded  as  the  first  movement  made  towards  com- 
memorating in  any  way  the  historic  struggle  on  Bunker  Hill ;  and 
yet,  although  a  funeral  procession  was  formed,  and  a  fitting  eulogy 
on  Gen.  Warren  was  delivered,  no  measures  were  taken  towards 
the  building  of  a  monument. 

On  the  8th  of  April,  1777,  however,  a  resolution  was  adopted 
by  the  Continental  Congress,  directing  that  monuments  should 
be  erected  to  Gen.  Warren  in  Boston  and  to  Gen.  Mercer  at  Fred- 


IN  TROD  UC  TION.  1 5 

ericksburg ;  but  no  steps  were  ever  taken  towards  the  carrying 
out  of  this  resolution. 

In  1794  the  lodge  of  Masons  at  Charlestown  decided  to 
erect  a  monument  to  Gen.  Warren  at  their  own  expense.  Land 
for  that  purpose  was  donated  to  the  lodge  by  the  Hon.  James 
Russell  of  Charlestown,  and  the  monument  was  dedicated  with 
appropriate  ceremonies  on  the  2d  of  December  of  the  same 
year.  This  monument  was  a  wooden  pillar,  eighteen  feet  in 
height,  raised  on  a  pedestal  eight  feet  square,  at  an  elevation  of 
ten  feet  from  the  ground.  On  the  summit  of  the  pillar  was  a 
gilt  urn,  and  on  the  south  side  of  the  pedestal  an  appropriate 
inscription  was  engraved. 

It  was  not  until  still  thirty  years  later  that  any  decisive  steps 
were  taken  towards  the  building  of  a  monument  which  should 
commemorate  in  a  general  way  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill,  and 
should  stand  as  the  nation's  expression  of  honor  and  gratitude  to 
those  who  fell  there  in  the  defense  of  American  liberty.  In  1824 
an  association  was  formed,  under  the  leadership  of  William  Tudor, 
Esq.,  to  whose  enthusiasm  and  perseverance  the  final  success  of 
the  undertaking  was  largely  due.  After  various  private  confer- 
ences among  those  who  were  most  deeply  interested  in  the  proj- 
ect, it  was  decided  to  lay  the  corner  stone  of  the  monument  on 
the  iyth  of  June,  1825,  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the  battle  ;  and, 
in  order  to  excite  enthusiasm  in  favor  of  the  work,  Gen.  La- 
fayette, at  that  time  the  nation's  guest,  was  invited  to  be  present, 
and  participate  in  the  ceremonies.  Free  transportation  was  of- 
fered to  all  surviving  soldiers  of  the  Revolution,  and  every  effort 
was  made  to  enlist  a  national  interest  in  the  patriotic  occasion. 

"The  celebration,"  says  Mr.  Frothingham,  "was  unequaled 
in  magnificence  by  anything  of  the  kind  that  had  been  seen  in 


1 6  INTROD  UCTION. 

New  England.  The  morning  proved  propitious.  The  air  was 
cool,  the  sky  was  clear,  and  timely  showers  the  previous  day  had 
brightened  the  vesture  of  Nature  into  its  loveliest  hue.  Delighted 
thousands  flocked  into  Boston  to  bear  a  part  in  the  proceedings, 
or  to  witness  the  spectacle.  At  about  ten  o'clock  a  procession 
moved  from  the  State  House  towards  Bunker  Hill.  The  military, 
in  their  fine  uniforms,  formed  the  van.  About  two  hundred  vet- 
erans of  the  Revolution,  of  whom  forty  were  survivors  of  the 
battle,  rode  in  barouches  next  to  the  escort.  These  venerable 
men,  the  relics  of  a  past  generation,  with  emaciated  frames,  tot- 
tering limbs,  and  trembling  voices,  constituted  a  touching  spec- 
tacle. Some  wore,  as  honorable  decorations,  their  old  fighting 
equipments ;  and  some  bore  the  scars  of  still  more  honorable 
wounds.  Glistening  eyes  constituted  their  answer  to  the  enthu- 
siastic cheers  of  the  grateful  multitudes  who  lined  their  pathway, 
and  cheered  their  progress.  To  this  patriot  band  succeeded  the 
Bunker  Hill  Monument  Association ;  then  the  Masonic  frater- 
nity, in  their  splendid  regalia,  thousands  in  number;  then  La- 
fayette, continually  welcomed  by  tokens  of  love  and  gratitude, 
and  the  invited  guests ;  then  a  long  array  of  societies,  with 
their  various  badges  and  banners.  It  was  a  splendid  procession, 
and  of  such  length  that  the  front  nearly  reached  Charlestown 
Bridge  ere  the  rear  had  left  Boston  Common.  It  proceeded  to 
Breed's  Hill,  where  the  Grand  Master  of  the  Freemasons,  the 
President  of  the  Monument  Association,  and  Gen.  Lafayette  per- 
formed the  ceremony  of  laying  the  corner  stone  in  the  presence 
of  a  vast  concourse  of  people."  The  procession  then  moved 
to  the  northern  declivity  of  the  hill,  where  Mr.  Webster  delivered 
his  oration  to  a  large  and  appreciative  audience. 

When  the  corner  stone  of  the  Bunker  Hill  Monument  was  thus 


INTRODUCTION.  17 

laid  in  1825,  no  definite  plan  for  its  construction  had  been  de- 
cided upon.  Among  other  designs  for  the  proposed  monument, 
one  submitted  by  Solomon  Willard,  an  architect  of  Boston,  was 
finally  adopted;  and  in  1827  the  foundation  was  laid  and  the 
work  of  construction  begun.  The  funds  on  hand,  amounting 
to  about  $55,000,  were  soon  exhausted,  however,  and  in  the  fol- 
lowing year  the  work  was  temporarily  abandoned.  In  1834  a 
renewed  effort  was  made,  a  considerable  amount  of  money  was 
raised  by  subscription,  and  the  building  of  the  great  stone  shaft 
was  renewed.  But  the  committee  having  the  affair  in  charge 
soon  found  itself  without  further  available  means,  and  prog- 
ress was  again  suspended.  In  1840  the  ladies  of  Boston  and 
the  vicinity  took  hold  of  the  enterprise.  A  fair  was  held  in 
Faneuil  Hall,  to  which  every  woman  in  the  United  States  had 
been  invited  to  contribute,  and  every  effort  was  made  to  increase 
the  list  of  subscriptions.  The  result  was,  that  a  contract  was 
soon  afterwards  entered  into  with  Mr.  Savage  of  Boston,  to  fin- 
ish the  monument  for  $43,000.  The  work  was  pushed  forward 
with  all  reasonable  dispatch,  and  the  last  stone  was  raised  to  the 
apex  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  July  23,  1842. 

The  monument,  which  is  in  the  form  of  an  obelisk,  is  built  of 
Quincy  granite,  is  thirty  feet  in  diameter  at  the  base,  and  about 
fifteen  feet  at  the  top  of  the  truncated  part.  It  consists  of  ninety 
courses  of  stone,  six  of  them  below  the  ground,  and  eighty-four 
above.  It  was  intended  that  it  should  be  two  hundred  and 
twenty  feet  high ;  but  the  precise  height  is  two  hundred  and 
twenty-one  feet.  The  observatory  at  the  top  is  seventeen  feet 
high,  and  eleven  feet  in  diameter.  The  cap  stone,  or  apex,  is 
a  single  stone  four  feet  square  at  the  base,  and  three  feet  six 
inches  in  height,  weighing  two  tons  and  a  half. 


1 8  IN  TROD  UCTION. 

It  was  arranged  by  the  directors  that  the  completion  of  the 
work  should  be  celebrated  on  the  iyth  of  the  following  June,  the 
sixty-eighth  anniversary  of  the  battle ;  and  Mr.  Webster  was 
invited  to  deliver  the  oration.  "  Many  circumstances,"  says 
Edward  Everett,  "  conspired  to  increase  the  interest  of  the  occa- 
sion. .  .  .  The  President  of  the  United  States  and  his  Cabinet 
had  accepted  invitations  to  be  present ;  delegations  of  the  de- 
scendants of  New  England  were  present  from  the  remotest  parts 
of  the  Union ;  one  hundred  and  eight  surviving  veterans  of  the 
Revolution,  among  whom  were  some  who  were  in  the  battle  of 
Bunker  Hill,  imparted  a  touching  interest  to  the  scene.  .  .  .  Mr. 
Webster  was  stationed  upon  an  elevated  platform  in  front  of 
the  audience  and  of  the  monument  towering  in  the  background. 
According  to  Mr.  Frothingham's  estimate,  a  hundred  thousand 
persons  were  gathered  about  the  spot,  and  nearly  half  that  num- 
ber are  supposed  to  have  been  within  the  reach  of  the  orator's 
voice.  The  ground  rises  slightly  between  the  platform  and  the 
Monument  Square,  so  that  the  whole  of  this  immense  concourse 
—  compactly  crowded  together,  breathless  with  attention,  swayed 
by  one  sentiment  of  admiration  and  delight— was  within  the  full 
view  of  the  speaker.  The  position  and  the  occasion  were  the 
height  of  the  moral  sublime." 


THE   BUNKER   HILL    MONUMENT. 

AN    ADDRESS    DELIVERED    AT    THE    LAYING    OF    THE    CORNER 
STONE    OF    THE    BUNKER    HILL    MONUMENT    AT 
CHARLESTOWN,    MASS.,    ON    THE 
OF   JUNE,     1825. 


THIS  uncounted  multitude  before  me  and  around  me  proves 
the  feeling  which  the  occasion  has  excited.  These  thou- 
sands of  human  faces,  glowing  with  sympathy  and  joy,  and  from 
the  impulses  of  a  common  gratitude  turned  reverently  to  heaven 
in  this  spacious  temple  of  the  firmament,  proclaim  that  the  day, 
the  place,  and  the  purpose  of  our  assembling,  have  made  a  deep 
impression  on  our  hearts. 

If,  indeed,  there  be  anything  in  local  association  fit  to  affect 
the  mind  of  man,  we  need  not  strive  to  repress  the  emotions 
which  agitate  us  here.  We  are  among  the  sepulchers  of  our 
fathers.  We  are  on  ground  distinguished  by  their  valor,  their 
constancy,  and  the  shedding  of  their  blood.  We  are  here,  not 
to  fix  an  uncertain  date  in  our  annals,  nor  to  draw  into  notice  an 
obscure  and  unknown  spot.  If  our  humble  purpose  had  never 
been  conceived,  if  we  ourselves  had  never  been  born,  the  iyth 
of  June,  1775,  would  have  been  a  day  on  which  all  subsequent 
history  would  have  poured  its  light,  and  the  eminence  where  we 
stand,  a  point  of  attraction  to  the  eyes  of  successive  generations. 
But  we  are  Americans.  We  live  in  what  may  be  called  the  "  early 
age "  of  this  great  continent ;  and  we  know  that  our  posterity, 
through  all  time,  are  here  to  enjoy  and  suffer  the  allotments  of 


20  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

humanity.  We  see  before  us  a  probable  train  of  great  events ; 
we  know  that  our  own  fortunes  have  been  happily  cast ;  and  it 
is  natural,  therefore,  that  we  should  be  moved  by  the  contempla- 
tion of  occurrences  which  have  guided  our  destiny  before  many 
of  us  were  born,  and  settled  the  condition  in  which  we  should 
pass  that  portion  of  our  existence  which  God  allows  to  men  on 
earth. 

We  do  not  read  even  of  the  discovery  of  this  continent  with- 
out feeling  something  of  a  personal  interest  in  the  event,  without 
being  reminded  how  much  it  has  affected  our  own  fortunes  and 
our  own  existence.  It  would  be  still  more  unnatural  for  us,  there- 
fore, than  for  others,  to  contemplate  with  unaffected  minds  that 
interesting,  I  may  say  that  most  touching  and  pathetic  scene, 
when  the  great  discoverer  of  America  stood  on  the  deck  of  his 
shattered  bark,  the  shades  of  night  falling  on  the  sea,  yet  no  man 
sleeping;  tossed  on  the  billows  of  an  unknown  ocean,  yet  the 
stronger  billows  of  alternate  hope  and  despair  tossing  his  own 
troubled  thoughts ;  extending  forward  his  harassed  frame,  strain- 
ing westward  his  anxious  and  eager  eyes,  till  Heaven  at  last 
granted  him  a  moment  of  rapture  and  ecstasy,  in  blessing  his 
vision  with  the  sight  of  the  unknown  world. 

Nearer  to  our  times,  more  closely  connected  with  our  fates, 
and  therefore  still  more  interesting  to  our  feelings  and  affections, 
is  the  settlement  of  our  own  country  by  colonists  from  England. 
We  cherish  every  memorial  of  these  worthy  ancestors ;  we  cele- 
brate their  patience  and  fortitude ;  we  admire  their  daring  enter- 
prise ;  we  teach  our  children  to  venerate  their  piety ;  and  we  are 
justly  proud  of  being  descended  from  men  who  have  set  the 
world  an  example  of  founding  civil  institutions  on  the  great  and 
united  principles  of  human  freedom  and  human  knowledge.  To 
us  their  children,  the  story  of  their  labors  and  sufferings  can 
never  be  without  its  interest.  We  shall  not  stand  unmoved  on 
the  shores  of  Plymouth  while  the  sea  continues  to  wash  it ;  nor 
will  our  brethren  in  another  early  and  ancient  Colony  forget  the 
place  of  its  first  establishment  till  their  river  shall  cease  to  flow 


THE   BUNKER   HILL   MONUMENT.  21 

by  it.1  No  vigor  of  youth,  no  maturity  of  manhood,  will  lead 
the  nation  to  forget  the  spots  where  its  infancy  was  cradled  and 
defended. 

But  the  great  event  in  the  history  of  the  continent,  which  we 
are  now  met  here  to  commemorate,  that  prodigy  of  modern 
times,  at  once  the  wonder  and  the  blessing  of  the  world,  is  the 
American  Revolution.  In  a  day  of  extraordinary  prosperity  and 
happiness,  of  high  national  honor,  distinction,  and  power,  we  are 
brought  together  in  this  place  by  our  love  of  country,  by  our 
admiration  of  exalted  character,  by  our  gratitude  for  signal  ser- 
vices and  patriotic  devotion. 

The  Society  whose  organ  I  am  2  was  formed  for  the  purpose 
of  rearing  some  honorable  and  durable  monument  to  the  memory 
of  the  early  friends  of  American  independence.  They  have 
thought  that  for  this  object  no  time  could  be  more  propitious 
than  the  present  prosperous  and  peaceful  period,  that  no  place 
could  claim  preference  over  this  memorable  spot,  and  that  no 
day  could  be  more  auspicious  to  the  undertaking  than  the  anni- 
versary of  the  battle  which  was  here  fought.  The  foundation  of 
that  monument  we  have  now  laid.  With  solemnities  3  suited  to 
the  occasion,  with  prayers  to  Almighty  God  for  his  blessing,  and 
in  the  midst  of  this  cloud  of  witnesses,  we  have  begun  the  work. 

1  As  nearly  every  one  of  the  Colonies  was  founded  on  the  bank  of  a  river, 
it  is  not  clear  which  is  alluded  to  here.     Edward  Everett,  whose  edition  of 
the  orations  appeared  while  Webster  was  still  living,  mentions  the  settlement 
of  the  Maryland  Colony  on  the  St.  Mary's  River.     "The  'Ark'  and  the 
'  Dove,'  "  he  says,  "  are  remembered  with  scarcely  less  interest  by  the  de- 
scendants of  the  sister  Colony  than  is  the  '  Mayflower  '  in  New  England, 
which  thirteen  years  earlier,  at  the  same  season  of  the  year,  bore  thither  the 
Pilgrim  Fathers." 

2  Mr.  Webster  was  at  that  time  president  of  the  Bunker  Hill  Monument 
Association,  having  been  appointed  to  that  position  as  the  successor  of  Gov. 
John  Brooks,  the  first  president. 

3  Besides  the  laying  of  the  corner  stone  with  Masonic  ceremonies,  there 
was  prayer  by  the  Rev.  Joseph  Thaxter,  and  an  ode  was  read  by  the  Rev. 
John  Pierpont  of  Boston. 


22  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

We  trust  it  will  be  prosecuted,  and  that,  springing  from  a  broad 
foundation,  rising  high  in  massive  solidity  and  unadorned 
grandeur,  it  may  remain  as  long  as  Heaven  permits  the  works 
of  man  to  last,  a  fit  emblem,  both  of  the  events  in  memory  of 
which  it  is  raised,  and  of  the  gratitude  of  those  who  have  reared  it. 
We  know,  indeed,  that  the  record  of  illustrious  actions  is  most 
safely  deposited  in  the  universal  remembrance  of  mankind.  We 
know  that  if  we  could  cause  this  structure  to  ascend,  not  only 
till  it  reached  the  skies,  but  till  it  pierced  them,  its  broad  surfaces 
could  still  contain  but  part  of  that  which,  in  an  age  of  knowl- 
edge, hath  already  been  spread  over  the  earth,  and  which  history 
charges  itself  with  making  known  to  all  future  times.  We  know 
that  no  inscription  on  entablatures  less  broad  than  the  earth  it- 
self can  carry  information  of  the  events  we  commemorate  where 
it  has  not  already  gone ;  and  that  no  structure  which  shall  not 
outlive  the  duration  of  letters  and  knowledge  among  men  can 
prolong  the  memorial.  But  our  object  is,  by  this  edifice,  to  show 
our  own  deep  sense  of  the  value  and  importance  of  the  achieve- 
ments of  our  ancestors,  and,  by  presenting  this  work  of  gratitude 
to  the  eye,  to  keep  alive  similar  sentiments,  and  to  foster  a  con- 
stant regard  for  the  principles  of  the  Revolution.  Human  be- 
ings are  composed  not  of  reason  only,  but  of  imagination  also, 
and  sentiment ;  and  that  is  neither  wasted  nor  misapplied  which 
is  appropriated  to  the  purpose  of  giving  right  direction  to  senti- 
ments, and  opening  proper  springs  of  feeling  in  the  heart.  Let 
it  not  be  supposed  that  our  object  is  to  perpetuate  national  hos- 
tility, or  even  to  cherish  a  mere  military  spirit.  It  is  higher, 
purer,  nobler.  We  consecrate  our  work  to  the  spirit  of  national 
independence,  and  we  wish  that  the  light  of  peace  may  rest 
upon  it  forever.  We  rear  a  memorial  of  our  conviction  of 
that  unmeasured  benefit  which  has  been  conferred  on  our  own 
land,  and  of  the  happy  influences  which  have  been  produced,  by 
the  same  events,  on  the  general  interests  of  mankind.  We  come, 
as  Americans,  to  mark  a  spot  which  must  forever  be  dear  to  us 
and  our  posterity.  We  wish  that  whosoever,  in  all  coming  time, 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.  23 

shall  turn  his  eye  hither  may  behold  that  the  place  is  not  undis- 
tinguished where  the  first  great  battle  of  the  Revolution  was 
fought.  We  wish  that  this  structure  may  proclaim  the  magni- 
tude and  importance  of  that  event  to  every  class  and  every  age. 
We  wish  that  infancy  may  learn  the  purpose  of  its  erection  from 
maternal  lips,  and  that  weary  and  withered  age  may  behold  it, 
and  be  solaced  by  the  recollections  which  it  suggests.  We  wish 
that  labor  may  look  up  here,  and  be  proud  in  the  midst  of  its 
toil.  We  wish  that  in  those  days  of  disaster,  which,  as  they 
come  upon  all  nations,  must  be  expected  to  come  upon  us  also, 
desponding  patriotism  may  turn  its  eyes  hitherward,  and  be  as- 
sured that  the  foundations  of  our  national  power  are  still  strong. 
We  wish  that  this  column,  rising  towards  heaven  among  the 
pointed  spires  of  so  many  temples  dedicated  to  God,  may  contrib- 
ute also  to  produce  in  all  minds  a  pious  feeling  of  dependence 
and  gratitude.  We  wish,  finally,  that  the  last  object  to  the  sight 
of  him  who  leaves  his  native  shore,  and  the  first  to  gladden  his 
who  revisits  it,  may  be  something  which  shall  remind  him  of  the 
liberty  and  the  glory  of  his  country.  Let  it  rise!  let  it  rise  till 
it  meet  the  sun  in  his  coming ;  let  the  earliest  light  of  the  morn- 
ing gild  it,  and  parting  day  linger  and  play  on  its  summit. 

^ 

We  live  in  a  most  extraordinary  age.     Events  so  various  and 

so  important  that  they  might  crowd  and  distinguish  centuries, 
are  in  our  times  compressed  within  the  compass  of  a  single  life. 
When  has  it  happened  that  history  has  had  so  much  to  record, 
in  the  same  term  of  years,  as  since  the  iyth  of  June,  1775  ? 
Our  own  Revolution,  which,  under  other  circumstances,  might 
itself  have  been  expected  to  occasion  a  war  of  half  a  century, 
has  been  achieved,  twenty-four  sovereign  and  independent  States 
erected,  and  a  general  government  established  over  them,  so  safe, 
so  wise,  so  free,  so  practical,  that  we  might  well  wonder  its  estab- 
lishment should  have  been  accomplished  so  soon,  were  it  not  far 
the  greater  wonder  that  it  should  have  been  established  at  all. 
Two  or  three  millions  of  people  have  been  augmented  to  twelve, 


24  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

the  great  forests  of  the  West  prostrated  beneath  the  arm  of  suc- 
cessful industry,  and  the  dwellers  on  the  banks  of  the  Ohio  and 
the  Mississippi  become  the  fellow  citizens  and  neighbors  of  those 
who  cultivate  the  hills  of  New  England.1  We  have  a  commerce 
that  leaves  no  sea  unexplored,  navies  which  take  no  law  from 
superior  force,  revenues  adequate  to  all  the  exigencies  of  gov- 
ernment, almost  without  taxation,  and  peace  with  all  nations, 
founded  on  equal  rights  and  mutual  respect. 

Europe,  within  the  same  period,  has  been  agitated  by  a  mighty 
revolution  2  which,  while  it  has  been  felt  in  the  individual  condi- 
tion and  happiness  of  almost  every  man,  has  shaken  to  the  cen- 
ter her  political  fabric,  and  dashed  against  one  another  thrones 
which  had  stood  tranquil  for  ages.  On  this  our  continent,  our 
own  example  has  been  followed,  and  colonies  have  sprung  up  to 
be  nations.  Unaccustomed  sounds  of  liberty  and  free  govern- 
ment have  reached  us  from  beyond  the  track  of  the  sun  ;  3  and  at 
this  moment  the  dominion  of  European  power  in  this  continent,4 
from  the  place  where  we  stand  to  the  south  pole,  is  annihilated 
forever. 

In  the  mean  time,  both  in  Europe  and  America,  such  has  been 
the  general  progress  of  knowledge,  such  the  improvement  in  leg- 
islation, in  commerce,  in  the  arts,  in  letters,  and,  above  all,  in 
liberal  ideas  and  the  general  spirit  of  the  age,  that  the  whole 
world  seems  changed. 

1  This  has  been  more  than  realized  by  the  introduction  of  railroads,  mak- 
ing the  people  even  of  the  Pacific  coast  neighbors  of  the  people  of  New  Eng- 
land.    Edward  Everett  mentions  as  an  interesting  circumstance,  the  fact  that 
the  first  railroad  on  the  Western  continent  was  built  for  the  purpose  of  aiding 
in  the  erection  of  this  monument.     It  was  a  horse  railroad  from  Quincy  to 
Boston,  and  was  used  for  transporting  the  blocks  of  granite  from  the  quarries. 

2  The  French  Revolution  and  the  wars  resulting  from  it. 

3  The  allusion  is  to  the  then  recent  establishment  of  republican  govern- 
ments in  South  America. 

4  The  Monroe  Doctrine,  enunciated  by  President  Monroe  in  his  message 
to  Congress  in   1823,  was  virtually  a  declaration  that  no  European  power 
should  be  permitted  to  secure  further  dominion  on  the  American  continent. 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.  25 

Yet,  notwithstanding  that  this  is  but  a  faint  abstract  of  the 
things  which  have  happened  since  the  day  of  the  battle  of 
Bunker  Hill,  we  are  but  fifty  years  removed  from  it ;  and  we 
now  stand  here  to  enjoy  all  the  blessings  of  our  own  condition, 
and  to  look  abroad  on  the  brightened  prospects  of  the  world, 
while  we  still  have  among  us  some  of  those  who  were  active 
agents  in  the  scenes  of  1775,  and  who  are  now  here,  from  every 
quarter  of  New  England,1  to  visit  once  more,  and  under  circum- 
stances so  affecting,  —  I  had  almost  said  so  overwhelming,  —  this 
renowned  theater  of  their  courage  and  patriotism. 

VENERABLE  MEN,  you  have  come  down  to  us  from  a  former 
generation.  Heaven  has  bounteously  lengthened  out  your  lives, 
that  you  might  behold  this  joyous  day.  You  are  now  where  you 
stood  fifty  years  ago  this  very  hour,  with  your  brothers  and  your 
neighbors,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  in  the  strife  for  your  country. 
Behold,  how  altered!  The  same  heavens  are  indeed  over  your 
heads;  the  same  ocean  rolls  at  your  feet:  but  all  else  how 
changed  !  You  hear  now  no  roar  of  hostile  cannon,  you  see  no 
mixed  volumes  of  smoke  and  flame  rising  from  burning  Charles- 
town.  The  ground  strewed  with  the  dead  and  the  dying ;  the 
impetuous  charge ;  the  steady  and  successful  repulse ;  the  loud 
call  to  repeated  assault ;  the  summoning  of  all  that  is  manly  to 
repeated  resistance ;  a  thousand  bosoms  freely  and  fearlessly  bared 
in  an  instant  to  whatever  of  terror  there  may  be  in  war  and  death, 
— all  these  you  have  witnessed,  but  you  witness  them  no  more.  All 
is  peace.  The  heights  of  yonder  metropolis,2  its  towers  and  roofs, 
— which  you  then  saw  filled  with  wives  and  children  and  country- 
men in  distress  and  terror,  and  looking  with  unutterable  emotions 
for  the  issue  of  the  combat, — have  presented  you  to-day  with  the 
sight  of  its  whole  happy  population  come  out  to  welcome  and 
greet  you  with  a  universal  jubilee.  Yonder  proud  ships,  by  a 

1  There  were  nearly  two  hundred  of  them,  forty  of  whom  had  been  in  the 
battle  of  Bmnker  Hill. 

2  Boston. 


26  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

felicity  of  position  appropriately  lying  at  the  foot  of  this  mount,1 
and  seeming  fondly  to  cling  around  it,  are  not  means  of  annoy- 
ance to  you,  but  your  country's  own  means  of  distinction  and 
defense.  All  is  peace ;  and  God  has  granted  you  this  sight  of 
your  country's  happiness  ere  you  slumber  in  the  grave.  He  has 
allowed  you  to  behold  and  to  partake  the  reward  of  your  pa- 
triotic toils ;  and  he  nas  allowed  us,  your  sons  and  countrymen, 
to  meet  you  here,  and  in  the  name  of  the  present  generation,  in 
the  name  of  your  country,  in  the  name  of  liberty,  to  thank  you. 

But,  alas  !  you  are  not  all  here.  Time  and  the  sword  have 
thinned  your  ranks.  Prescott,  Putnam,  Stark,  Brooks,  Read, 
Pomeroy,  Bridge,  —  our  eyes  seek  for  you  in  vain  amid  this  broken 
band.  You  are  gathered  to  your  fathers,  and  live  only  to  your 
country  in  her  grateful  remembrance  and  your  own  bright  exam- 
ple. But  let  us  not  too  much  grieve  that  you  have  met  the 
common  fate  of  men.  You  lived  at  least  long  enough  to  know 
that  your  work  had  been  nobly  and  successfully  accomplished. 
You  lived  to  see  your  country's  independence  established,  and 
to  sheathe  your  swords  from  war.  On  the  light  of  Liberty  you 
saw  arise  the  light  of  Peace,  like 

"Another  morn, 
Risen  on  mid  noon  ;  "  2 

and  the  sky  on  which  you  closed  your  eyes  was  cloudless. 

But  ah  !  him,  the  first  great  martyr 3  in  this  great  cause ; 
him,  the  premature  victim  of  his  own  self-devoting  heart ; 
him,  the  head  of  our  civil  councils  and  the  destined  leader  of 
our  military  bands,  whom  nothing  brought  hither  but  the  un- 
quenchable fire  of  his  own  spirit ;  him,  cut  off  by  Providence 

1  The  United  States  Navy  Yard  at  Charlestown  is  situated  at  the  base  of 
Bunker  Hill. 

2  Paradise  Lost,  v.  310. 

3  Gen.  Joseph  Warren,  born  in   I741}    was   a  man  of  fine   culture  and 
unusual  promise.     He  had  been  elected  president  of  the  Provincial  Congress, 
and  was  one  of  the  most  ardent  patriots  of  the  time. 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.  27 

in  the  hour  of  overwhelming  anxiety  and  thick  gloom,  falling 
ere  he  saw  the  star  of  his  country  rise,  pouring  out  his  generous 
blood  like  water  before  he  knew  whether  it  would  fertilize  a  land 
of  freedom  or  of  bondage,  —  how  shall  I  struggle  with  the  emo- 
tions that  stifle  the  utterance  of  thy  name  !  Our  poor  work 
may  perish ;  but  thine  shall  endure.  This  monument  may 
molder  away ;  the  solid  ground  it  rests  upon  may  sink  down  to 
a  level  with  the  sea :  but  thy  memory  shall  not  fail.  Whereso- 
ever among  men  a  heart  shall  be  found  that  beats  to  the  trans- 
ports of  patriotism  and  liberty,  its  aspirations  shall  be  to  claim 
kindred  with  thy  spirit. 

But  the  scene  amidst  which  we  stand  does  not  permit  us  to 
confine  our  thoughts  or  our  sympathies  to  those  fearless  spirits 
who  hazarded  or  lost  their  lives  on  this  consecrated  spot.  We 
have  the  happiness  to  rejoice  here  in  the  presence  of  a  most 
worthy  representation  of  the  survivors  of  the  whole  Revolutionary 
army. 

VETERANS,  you  are  the  remnant  of  many  a  well-fought  field. 
You  bring  with  you  marks  of  honor  from  Trenton  and  Monmouth, 
from  Yorktown,  Camden,  Bennington,  and  Saratoga.  VETERANS 
OF  HALF  A  CENTURY,  when  in  your  youthful  days  you  put  every- 
thing at  hazard  in  your  country's  cause,  —  good  as  that  cause  was, 
and  sanguine  as  youth  is, — still  your  fondest  hopes  did  not  stretch 
onward  to  an  hour  like  this.  At  a  period  to  which  you  could 
not  reasonably  have  expected  to  arrive,  at  a  moment  of  national 
prosperity  such  as  you  could  never  have  foreseen,  you  are  now 
met  here  to  enjoy  the  fellowship  of  old  soldiers,  and  to  receive 
the  overflowings  of  a  universal  gratitude. 

But  your  agitated  countenances  and  your  heaving  breasts  in- 
form me  that  even  this  is  not  an  unmixed  joy.  I  perceive  that 
a  tumult  of  contending  feelings  rushes  upon  you.  The  images 
of  the  dead,  as  well  as  the  persons  of  the  living,  present  them- 
selves before  you.  The  scene  overwhelms  you,  and  I  turn  from 
it.  May  the  Father  of  all  mercies  smile  upon  your  declining 
years,  and  bless  them  !  And  when  you  shall  here  have  ex- 


28  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

changed  your  embraces,  when  you  shall  once  more  have  pressed 
the  hands  which  have  been  so  often  extended  to  give  succor  in 
adversity,  or  grasped  in  the  exultation  of  victory,  then  look  abroad 
upon  this  lovely  land  which  your  young  valor  defended,  and 
mark  the  happiness  with  which  it  is  filled ;  yea,  look  abroad  upon 
the  whole  earth,  and  see  what  a  name  you  have  contributed  to 
give  to  your  country,  and  what  a  praise  you  have  added  to  free- 
dom, and  then  rejoice  in  the  sympathy  and  gratitude  which  beam 
upon  your  last  days  from  the  improved  condition  of  mankind  ! 

The  occasion  does  not  require  of  me  any  particular  account  of 
the  battle  of  the  iyth  of  June,  1775,  nor  any  detailed  narrative 
of  the  events  which  immediately  preceded  it.  These  are  famil- 
iarly known  to  all.  In  the  progress  of  the  great  and  interesting 
controversy,  Massachusetts  and  the  town  of  Boston  had  become 
early  and  marked  objects  of  the  displeasure  of  the  British  Parlia- 
ment. This  had  been  manifested  in  the  act  for  altering  the  gov- 
ernment of  the  Province,  and  in  that  for  shutting  up  the  port  of 
Boston.1  Nothing  sheds  more  honor  on  our  early  history,  and 
nothing  better  shows  how  little  the  feelings  and  sentiments  of  the 
Colonies  were  known  or  regarded  in  England,  than  the  impres- 
sion which  these  measures  everywhere  produced  in  America.  It 
had  been  anticipated  that,  while  the  Colonies  in  general  would 
be  terrified  by  the  severity  of  the  punishment  inflicted  on  Mas- 
sachusetts, the  other  seaports  would  be  governed  by  a  mere  spirit 
of  gain  ;  and  that,  as  Boston  was  now  cut  off  from  all  commerce, 
the  unexpected  advantage  which  this  blow  on  her  was  calculated 
to  confer  on  other  towns  would  be  greedily  enjoyed.  How  mis- 
erably such  reasoners  deceived  themselves  !  How  little  they 
knew  of  the  depth  and  the  strength  and  the  intenseness  of  that 
feeling  of  resistance  to  illegal  acts  of  power  which  possessed  the 
whole  American  people  !  Everywhere  the  unworthy  boon  was 

1  The  Boston  Port  Bill,  passed  by  the  British  Parliament  in  1774,  declared 
that  port  to  be  closed,  and  transferred  the  seat  of  colonial  government  to 
Salem. 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.  29 

rejected  with  scorn.  The  fortunate  occasion  was  seized  every- 
where, to  show  to  the  whole  world  that  the  Colonies  were  swayed 
by  no  local  interest,  no  partial  interest,  no  selfish  interest.  The 
temptation  to  profit  by  the  punishment  of  Boston  was  strongest 
to  our  neighbors  of  Salem.  Yet  Salem  was  precisely  the  place 
where  this  miserable  proffer  was  spurned  in  a  tone  of  the  most 
lofty  self-respect  and  the  most  indignant  patriotism.  "  We  are 
deeply  affected,"  said  its  inhabitants,  "  with  the  sense  of  our  pub- 
lic calamities ;  but  the  miseries  that  are  now  rapidly  hastening 
on  our  brethren  in  the  capital  of  the  Province  greatly  excite  our 
commiseration.  By  shutting  up  the  port  of  Boston,  some  imagine 
that  the  course  of  trade  might  be  turned  hither  and  to  our  bene- 
fit ;  but  we  must  be  dead  to  every  idea  of  justice,  lost  to  all  feel- 
ings of  humanity,  could  we  indulge  a  thought  to  seize  on  wealth, 
and  raise  our  fortunes,  on  the  ruin  of  our  suffering  neighbors." 
These  noble  sentiments  were  not  confined  to  our  immediate  vi- 
cinity. In  that  day  of  general  affection  and  brotherhood,  the 
blow  given  to  Boston  smote  on  every  patriotic  heart  from  one 
end  of  the  country  to  the  other.  Virginia  and  the  Carolinas,  as 
well  as  Connecticut  and  New  Hampshire,  felt  and  proclaimed 
the  cause  to  be  their  own.  The  Continental  Congress,  then 
holding  its  first  session  in  Philadelphia,  expressed  its  sympathy 
for  the  suffering  inhabitants  of  Boston;  and  addresses  were 
received  from  all  quarters  assuring  them  that  the  cause  was  a 
common  one,  and  should  be  met  by  common  efforts  and  com- 
mon sacrifices.  The  Congress  of  Massachusetts  responded  to 
these  assurances ;  and  in  an  address  to  the  Congress  at  Philadel- 
phia, bearing  the  official  signature  (perhaps  among  the  last)  of 
the  immortal  Warren,  notwithstanding  the  severity  of  its  suffer- 
ing and  the  magnitude  of  the  dangers  which  threatened  it,  it  was 
declared  that  this  Colony  "  is  ready  at  all  times  to  spend  and  to 
be  spent  in  the  cause  of  America." 

But  the  hour  drew  nigh  which  was  to  put  professions  to  the 
proof,  and  to  determine  whether  the  authors  of  these  mutual 
pledges  were  ready  to  seal  them  in  blood.  The  tidings  of  Lex- 


30  DANIEL   WEBSTER. 

ington  and  Concord  had  no  sooner  spread  than  it  was  univer- 
sally felt  that  the  time  was  at  last  come  for  action.  A  spirit  per- 
vaded all  ranks,  not  transient,  not  boisterous,  but  deep,  solemn, 
determined, 

"  Totamque  infusa  per  artus 
Mens  agitat  molem,  et  magno  se  corpora  miscet."  1 

War  on  their  own  soil  and  at  their  own  doors  was,  indeed,  a 
strange  work  to  the  yeomanry  of  New  England ;  but  their  con- 
sciences were  convinced  of  its  necessity,  their  country  called  them 
to  it,  and  they  did  not  withhold  themselves  from  the  perilous  trial. 
The  ordinary  occupations  of  life  were  abandoned ;  the  plow  was 
stayed  in  the  unfinished  furrow ;  wives  gave  up  their  husbands, 
and  mothers  gave  up  their  sons,  to  the  battles  of  a  civil  war. 
Death  might  come,  in  honor,  on  the  field ;  it  might  come,  in 
disgrace,  on  the  scaffold :  for  either  and  for  both  they  were  pre- 
pared. The  sentiment  of  Quincy2  was  full  in  their  hearts. 
"  Blandishments,"  said  that  distinguished  son  of  genius  and  pa- 
triotism, "  will  not  fascinate  us,  nor  will  threats  of  a  halter  intim- 
idate ;  for,  under  God,  we  are  determined  that  wheresoever, 
whensoever,'  or  howsoever  we  shall  be  called  to  make  our  exit, 
we  will  die  free  men." 

The  iyth  of  June  saw  the  four  New-England  Colonies3  stand- 
ing here  side  by  side  to  triumph  or  to  fall  together;  and  there 
was  with  them,  from  that  moment  to  the  end  of  the  war,  what  I 
hope  will  remain  with  them  forever,  one  cause,  one  country,  one 
heart. 

The  battle  of  Bunker  Hill  was  attended  with  the  most  impor- 

1  ^Eneid,  Lib.  VI.  725,  William  Morris's  translation:  — 

"  One  soul  is  shed  through  all, 
That  quickeneth  all  the  mass,  and  with  the  mighty  thing  is  blent." 

2  Josiah  Quincy,  Jr.  (born  in  1744;  died  at  sea,  1775),  was  one  of  the 
most  energetic  opponents  of  British  usurpation,  and  with  Warren  and  James 
Otis  exerted  an  early  and  very  great  influence  in  favor  of  the  freedom  of  the 
American  Colonies. 

3  Massachusetts,  New  Hampshire,  Rhode  Island,  Connecticut. 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.  31 

tant  effects  beyond  its  immediate  results  as  a  military  engage- 
ment. It  created  at  once  a  state  of  open,  public  war.  There 
could  now  be  no  longer  a  question  of  proceeding  against  indi- 
viduals as  guilty  of  treason  or  rebellion.  That  fearful  crisis  was 
past.  The  appeal  lay  to  the  sword ;  and  the  only  question  was, 
whether  the  spirit  and  the  resources  of  the  people  would  hold 
out  till  the  object  should  be  accomplished.  Nor  were  its  gen- 
eral consequences  confined  to  our  own  country.  The  previous 
proceedings  of  the  Colonies,  their  appeals,  resolutions,  and  ad- 
dresses, had  made  their  cause  known  to  Europe.  Without  boast- 
ing, we  may  say  that  in  no  age  or  country  has  the  public  cause 
been  maintained  with  more  force  of  argument,  more  power  of 
illustration,  or  more  of  that  persuasion  which  excited  feeling  and 
elevated  principle  can  alone  bestow,  than  the  Revolutionary  state 
papers  exhibit.  These  papers  will  forever  deserve  to  be  studied, 
not  only  for  the  spirit  which  they  breathe,  but  for  the  ability  with 
which  they  were  written. 

To  this  able  vindication  of  their  cause,  the  Colonies  had  now 
added  a  practical  and  severe  proof  of  their  own  true  devotion  to 
it,  and  given  evidence  also  of  the  power  which  they  could  bring 
to  its  support.  All  now  saw  that,  if  America  fell,  she  would  not 
fall  without  a  struggle.  Men  felt  sympathy  and  regard,  as  well 
as  surprise,  when  they  beheld  these  infant  states,  remote,  un- 
known, unaided,  encounter  the  power  of  England,  and,  in  the 
first  considerable  battle,  leave  more  of  their  enemies  dead  on  the 
field,  in  proportion  to  the  number  of  combatants,1  than  had  been 
recently  known  to  fall  in  the  wars  of  Europe. 

Information  of  these  events,  circulating  throughout  the  world, 
at  length  reached  the  ears  of  one  who  now  hears  me.2  He  has 

1  There  were  engaged  in  the  battle  about  1 , 500  Americans  and  2, 500  British. 
The  losses  of  the  Americans  were  115  killed,  305  wounded,  30  captured :  total 
450.     The  British  lost  206  killed,  828  wounded:  total  1,054. 

2  "  Among  the  earliest  of  the  arrangements  for  the  celebration  of  the  I7th 
of  June,  1825,  was  the  invitation  to  Gen.  Lafayette  to  be  present;  and  he 
had  so  timed  his  progress  through  the  other  States  as  to  return  to  Massachu- 
setts in  season  for  the  great  occasion."  —  EVERETT. 


32  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

not  forgotten  the  emotion  which  the  fame  of  Bunker  Hill  and 
the  name  of  Warren  excited  in  his  youthful  breast. 

SIR,  we  are  assembled  to  commemorate  the  establishment  of 
great  public  principles  of  liberty,  and  to  do  honor  to  the  distin- 
guished dead.  The  occasion  is  too  severe  for  eulogy  of  the  liv- 
ing. But,  sir,  your  interesting  relation  to  this  country,  the  pecul- 
iar circumstances  which  surround  you  and  surround  us,  call  on 
me  to  express  the  happiness  which  we  derive  from  your  presence 
and  aid  in  this  solemn  commemoration. 

Fortunate,  fortunate  man  ! — with  what  measure  of  devotion 
will  you  not  thank  God  for  the  circumstances  of  your  extra*ordi- 
nary  life  !  You  are  connected  with  both  hemispheres  and  with 
two  generations.  Heaven  saw  fit  to  ordain  that  the  electric 
spark  of  liberty  should  be  conducted,  through  you,  from  the 
New  World  to  the  Old ;  and  we  who  are  now  here  to  perform 
this  duty  of  patriotism  have  all  of  us  long  ago  received  it  in 
charge  from  our  fathers  to  cherish  your  name  and  your  virtues. 
You  will  account  it  an  instance  of  your  good  fortune,  sir,  that 
you  crossed  the  seas  to  visit  us  at  a  time  which  enables  you  to  be 
present  at  this  solemnity.1  You  now  behold  the  field  the  renown 
of  which  reached  you  in  the  heart  of  France,  and  caused  a  thrill 
in  your  ardent  bosom.  You  see  the  lines  of  the  little  redoubt 
thrown  up  by  the  incredible  diligence  of  Prescott,  defended  to 
the  last  extremity  by  his  lion-hearted  valor,  and  within  which 
the  corner  stone  of  our  monument  has  now  taken  its  position. 
You  see  where  Warren  fell,  and  where  Parker,  Gardner,  Mc- 
Cleary,  Moore,  and  other  early  patriots  fell  with  him.  Those 
who  survived  that  day,  and  whose  lives  have  been  prolonged  to 
the  present  hour,  are  now  around  you.  Some  of  them  you  have 
known  in  the  trying  scenes  of  the  war.  Behold  !  they  now 

1  Gen.  Lafayette  made  a  tour  of  the  United  States  as  the  "  nation's 
guest  "  in  1824-25.  His  name  stood  at  the  head  of  the  subscriptions  for 
the  Bunker  Hill  Monument;  and  he  wrote,  "  In  all  my  travels  through  the 
country,  I  have  made  Bunker  Hill  my  polestar." 


THE  BUNKER  HILL   MONUMENT.  33 

stretch  forth  their  feeble  arms  to  embrace  you.  Behold  !  they 
raise  their  trembling  voices  to  invoke  the  blessing  of  God  on  you 
and  yours  forever. 

Sir,  you  have  assisted  us  in  laying  the  foundation  of  this  struc- 
ture. You  have  heard  us  rehearse,  with  our  feeble  commenda- 
tion, the  names  of  departed  patriots.  Monuments  and  eulogy 
belong  to  the  dead.1  We  give  them  this  day  to  Warren  and  his 
associates.  On  other  occasions  they  have  been  given  to  your 
more  immediate  companions  in  arms,  to  Washington,  to  Greene, 
to  Gates,  to  Sullivan,  and  to  Lincoln.  We  have  become  reluc- 
tant to  grant  these,  our  highest  and  last  honors,  further.  We 
would  gladly  hold  them  yet  back  from  the  little  remnant  of  that 
immortal  band.  Serus  in  ccelum  reflects?  Illustrious  as  are  your 
merits,  yet  far,  oh,  very  far  distant  be  the  day  3  when  any  inscrip- 
tion shall  bear  your  name,. or  any  tongue  pronounce  its  eulogy  ! 

The  leading  reflection  to  which  this  occasion  seems  to  invite 
us  respects  the  great  changes  which  have  happened  in  the  fifty 
years  since  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill  was  fought.  And  it  pecul- 
iarly marks  the  character  of  the  present  age,  that,  in  looking  at 
these  changes  and  in  estimating  their  effect  on  our  condition,  we 
are  obliged  to  consider,  not  what  has  been  done  in  our  own  country 
only,  but  in  others  also.  In  these  interesting  times,  while  nations 
are  making  separate  and  individual  advances  in  improvement, 
they  make,  too,  a  common  progress,  like  vessels  on  a  common 
tide,  propelled  by  the  gales  at  different  rates,  according  to  their 
several  structure  and  management,  but  all  moved  forward  by  one 
mighty  current,  strong  enough  to  bear  onward  whatever  does  not 
sink  beneath  it. 

1  "  The  thrilling  eloquence  of  the  address  to  the  old  soldiers  of  Bunker 
Hill,  and  of  the  apostrophe  to  Warren,  and  the  superb  reservation  of  eulogy 
with  which  he  spoke  of  and  to  Gen.   Lafayette,  were  perhaps  unequaled, 
surely  never  surpassed,   by  Webster  on  any  other  occasion."— ' 

Life  of  Webster,  ii.  p.  252. 

2  "  Late  into  heaven  may  you  return."  —  HORACE,  I.  ii.  45- 

3  Lafayette  died  May  20,  1834. 


34  DANIEL    ll'EBSTER. 

A  chief  distinction  of  the  present  day  is  a  community  of  opin- 
ions and  knowledge  amongst  men  in  different  nations,  existing  in 
a  degree  heretofore  unknown.  Knowledge  has  in  our  time 
triumphed,  and  is  triumphing,  over  distance,  over  difference  of 
languages,  over  diversity  of  habits,  over  prejudice,  and  over 
bigotry.  The  civilized  and  Christian  world  is  fast  learning  the 
great  lesson,  that  difference  of  nation  does  not  imply  necessary 
hostility,  and  that  all  contact  need  not  be  war.  The  whole  world 
is  becoming  a  common  field  for  intellect  to  act  in.  Energy  of 
mind,  genius,  power,  wheresoever  it  exists  ay  speak  out  in 
any  tongue,  and  the  world  will  hear  it.  A  great  chord  of  senti- 
ment and  feeling  runs  through  two  continents,  and  vibrates  over 
both.  Every  breeze  wafts  intelligence  from  country  to  country ; 
every  wave  rolls  it ;  all  give  it  forth,  and  all  in  turn  receive  it. 
There  is  a  vast  commerce  of  ideas;  there  are  marts  and  ex- 
changes for  intellectual  discoveries,  and  a  wonderful  fellowship 
of  those  individual  intelligences  which  make  up  the  mind  and 
opinion  of  the  age.  Mind  is  the  great  lever  of  all  things ;  hu- 
man thought  is  the  process  by  which  human  ends  are  ultimately 
answered ;  and  the  diffusion  of  knowledge,  so  astonishing  in  the 
last  half  century,  has  rendered  innumerable  minds,  variously 
gifted  by  nature,  competent  to  be  competitors  or  fellow  workers 
on  the  theater  of  intellectual  operation. 

From  these  causes,  important  improvements  have  taken  place 
in  the  personal  condition  of  individuals.  Generally  speaking, 
mankind  are  not  only  better  fed  and  better  clothed,  but  they  are 
able  also  to  enjoy  more  leisure ;  they  possess  more  refinement 
and  more  self-respect.  A  superior  tone  of  education,  manners, 
and  habits,  prevails.  This  remark,  most  true  in  its  application  to 
our  own  country,  is  also  partly  true  when  applied  elsewhere.  It 
is  proved  by  the  vastly  augmented  consumption  of  those  articles 
of  manufacture  and  of  commerce  which  contribute  to  the  com- 
forts and  the  decencies  of  life,  —  an  augmentation  which  has  far 
outrun  the  progress  of  population.  And  while  the  unexampled 
and  almost  incredible  use  of  machinery  would  seem  to  supply  the 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.  35 

place  of  labor,  labor  still  finds  its  occupation  and  its  reward,  so 
wisely  has  Providence  adjusted  men's  wants  and  desires  to  their 
condition  and  their  capacity. 

Any  adequate  survey,  however,  of  the  progress  made  during 
the  last  half  century  in  the  polite  and  the  mechanic  arts,  in  ma- 
chinery and  manufactures,  in  commerce  and  agriculture,  in  letters 
and  in  science,  would  require  volumes.  I  must  abstain  wholly 
from  these  subjects,  and  turn  for  a  moment  to  the  contemplation 
of  what  has  been  done  on  the  great  question  of  politics  and  gov- 
ernment. This  is  the  master  topic  of  the  age,  and  during  the 
whole  fifty  years  it  has  intensely  occupied  the  thoughts  of  men. 
The  nature  of  civil  government,  its  ends  and  uses,  have  been 
canvassed  and  investigated,  ancient  opinions  attacked  and  de- 
fended, new  ideas  recommended  and  resisted,  by  whatever  power 
the  mind  of  man  could  bring  to  the  controversy.  From  the  closet 
and  the  public  halls,  the  debate  has  been  transferred  to  the  field  ; 
and  the  world  has  been  shaken  by  wars  of  unexampled  magni- 
tude and  the  greatest  variety  of  fortune.  A  day  of  peace  has 
at  length  succeeded ;  and,  now  that  the  strife  has  subsided  and 
the  smoke  cleared  away,  we  may  begin  to  see  what  has  actually 
been  done  permanently  changing  the  state  and  condition  of  hu- 
man society.  And,  without  dwelling  on  particular  circumstances, 
it  is  most  apparent,  that,  from  the  before-mentioned  causes  of 
augmented  knowledge  and  improved  individual  condition,  a  real, 
substantial,  and  important  change  has  taken  place,  and  is  taking 
place,  highly  favorable,  on  the  whole,  to  human  liberty  and 
human  happiness. 

The  great  wheel  of  political  revolution  began  to  move  in  Ameri- 
ca. Here  its  rotation  was  guarded,  regular,  and  safe.  Transferred 
to  the  other  continent,  from  unfortunate  but  natural  causes,  it 
received  an  irregular  and  violent  impulse  ;  it  whirled  along  with  a 
fearful  celerity,  till  at  length,  like  the  chariot  wheels  in  the  races 
of  antiquity,  it  took  fire  from  the  rapidity  of  its  own  motion,  and 
blazed  onward,  spreading  conflagration  and  terror  around.1 

1  Alluding  to  the  French  Revolution  (1793)  and  the  Reign  of  Terror. 


36  DANIEL   WEBSTER. 

We  learn  from  the  result  of  this  experiment  how  fortunate  was 
our  own  condition,  and  how  admirably  the  character  of  our 
people  was  calculated  for  setting  the  great  example  of  popular 
governments.  The  possession  of  power  did  not  turn  the  heads 
of  the  American  people,  for  they  had  long  been  in  the  habit  of 
exercising  a  great  degree  of  self-control.  Although  the  para- 
mount authority  of  the  parent  state  existed  over  them,  yet  a  large 
field  of  legislation  had  always  been  open  to  our  colonial  assemblies. 
They  were  accustomed  to  representative  bodies  and  the  forms  of 
free  government ;  they  understood  the  doctrine  of  the  division  of 
power  among  different  branches,  and  the  necessity  of  checks  on 
each.  The  character  of  our  countrymen,  moreover,  was  sober, 
moral,  and  religious,  and  there  was  little  in  the  change  to  shock 
their  feelings  of  justice  and  humanity,  or  even  to  disturb  an  hon- 
est prejudice.  We  had  no  domestic  throne  to  overturn,  no  privi- 
leged orders  to  cast  down,  no  violent  changes  of  property  to  en- 
counter. In  the  American  Revolution,  no  man  sought  or  wished 
for  more  than  to  defend  and  enjoy  his  own.  None  hoped  for 
plunder  or  for  spoil.  Rapacity  was  unknown  to  it ;  the  ax  was 
not  among  the  instruments  of  its  accomplishment ;  and  we  all 
know  that  it  could  not  have  lived  a  single  day  under  any  well- 
founded  imputation  of  possessing  a  tendency  adverse  to  the 
Christian  religion. 

It  need  not  surprise  us,  that,  under  circumstances  less  auspi 
cious,  political  revolutions  elsewhere,  even  when  well  intended, 
have  terminated  differently.  It  is,  indeed,  a  great  achievement, 
it  is  the  master  work  of  the  world,  to  establish  governments  en- 
tirely popular  on  lasting  foundations ;  nor  is  it  easy,  indeed,  to 
introduce  the  popular  principle  at  all  into  governments  to  which 
it  has  been  altogether  a  stranger.  It  cannot  be  doubted,  how- 
ever, that  Europe  has  come  out  of  the  contest,  in  which  she  has 
been  so  long  engaged,  with  greatly  superior  knowledge,  and,  in 
many  respects,  in  a  highly  improved  condition.  Whatever  bene- 
fit has  been  acquired  is  likely  to  be  retained,  for  it  consists  mainly 
in  the  acquisition  of  more  enlightened  ideas.  And  although  king- 


THE  BUNKER   HILL  MONUMENT.  37 

doms  and  provinces  may  be  wrested  from  the  hands  that  hold 
them,  in  the  same  manner  they  were  obtained ;  although  ordi- 
nary and  vulgar  power  may,  in  human  affairs,  be  lost  as  it  has 
been  won ;  yet  it  is  the  glorious  prerogative  of  the  empire  of 
knowledge,  that  what  it  gains  it  never  loses.  On  the  contrary, 
it  increases  by  the  multiple  of  its  own  power ;  all  its  ends  become 
means ;  all  its  attainments,  helps  to  new  conquests.  Its  whole 
abundant  harvest  is  but  so  much  seed  wheat,  and  nothing  has 
limited,  and  nothing  can  limit,  the  amount  of  ultimate  product. 

Under  the  influence  of  this  rapidly  increasing  knowledge,  the 
people  have  begun,  in  all  forms  of  government,  to  think  and  to 
reason  on  affairs  of  state.  Regarding  government  as  an  institu- 
tion for  the  public  good,  they  demand  a  knowledge  of  its  opera- 
tions and  a  participation  in  its  exercise.  A  call  for  the  repre- 
sentative system  wherever  it  is  not  enjoyed,  and  where  there  is 
already  intelligence  enough  to  estimate  its  value,  is  perseveringly 
made.  Where  men  may  speak  out,  they  demand  it ;  where  the 
bayonet  is  at  their  throats,  they  pray  for  it. 

When  Louis  XIV.1  said,  "  I  am  the  state,"  he  expressed 
the  essence  of  the  doctrine  of  unlimited  power.  By  the  rules 
of  that  system,  the  people  are  disconnected  from  the  state : 
they  are  its  subjects ;  it  is  their  lord.  These  ideas,  founded  in 
the  love  of  power,  and  long  supported  by  the  excess  and  the 
abuse  of  it,  are  yielding,  in  our  age,  to  other  opinions ;  and  the 
civilized  world  seems  at  last  to  be  proceeding  to  the  conviction 
of  that  fundamental  and  manifest  truth,  that  the  powers  of  gov- 
ernment are  but  a  trust,  and  that  they  cannot  be  lawfully  exer- 
cised but  for  the  good  of  the  community.  As  knowledge  is 
more  and  more  extended,  this  conviction  becomes  more  and 
more  general.  Knowledge,  in  truth,  is  the  great  sun  in  the  fir- 
mament. Life  and  power  are  scattered  with  all  its  beams.  The 
prayer  of  the  Grecian  champion  when  enveloped  in  unnatural 
clouds  and  darkness  is  the  appropriate  political  supplication  for 
the  people  of  every  country  not  yet  blessed  with  free  institutions  : 

1  Louis  XIV.,  King  of  France,  1643-1715. 


38  DANIEL   WEBSTER. 

"  Dispel  this  cloud,  the  light  of  heaven  restore, 
Give  me  TO  SEE, —  and  Ajax  asks  no  more."  1 

We  may  hope  that  the  growing  influence  of  enlightened  senti- 
ment will  promote  the  permanent  peace  of  the  world.  Wars  to 
maintain  family  alliances,  to  uphold  or  to  cast  down  dynasties, 
ind  to  regulate  successions  to  thrones,  which  have  occupied  so 
much  room  in  the  history  of  modern  times,  if  not  less  likely  to 
happen  at  all,  will  be  less  likely  to  become  general  and  involve 
many  nations,  as  the  great  principle  shall  be  more  and  more 
established,  that  the  interest  of  the  world  is  peace,  and  its  first 
great  statute,  that  every  nation  possesses  the  power  of  establish- 
ing a  government  for  itself.  But  public  opinion  has  attained, 
also,  an  influence  over  governments  which  do  not  admit  the  popu- 
lar principle  into  their  organization.  A  necessary  respect  for  th<?. 
judgment  of  the  world  operates,  in  some  measure,  as  a  control 
over  the  most  unlimited  forms  of  authority.  It  is  owing,  per- 
haps, to  this  truth,  thaf  the  interesting  struggle  of  the  Greeks 2 
has  been  suffered  to  go  on  so  long  without  a  direct  interference, 
either  to  wrest  that  country  from  its  present  masters,  or  to  execute 
the  system  of  pacification  by  force,  and  with  united  strength  lay 
the  neck  of  Christian  and  civilized  Greek  at  the  foot  of  the  bar- 
barian Turk.  Let  us  thank  God  that  we  live  in  an  age  when 
something  has  influence  besides  the  bayonet,  and  when  the  stern- 
est authority  does  not  venture  to  encounter  the  scorching  power 
of  public  reproach.  Any  attempt  of  the  kind  I  have  mentioned 
should  be  met  by  one  universal  burst  of  indignation ;  the  air  of 
the  civilized  world  ought  to  be  made  too  warm  to  be  comfortably 
breathed  by  any  one  who  would  hazard  it. 

It  is,  indeed,  a  touching  reflection,  that  while,  in  the  fullness  of 
our  country's  happiness,  we  rear  this  monument  to  her  honor,  we 

1  Iliad,  XVII.  729,  Pope's  translation. 

2  The  Greek  Revolution,  against  Turkish  oppression  and  for  the  freedom 
of  Greece,  was  then  in  progress.     It  had  begun  in  1820,  and  was  terminated, 
with  the  success  of  the  patriots,  in  1829. 


THE  BUNKER  HILL   MONUMENT.  39 

look  for  instruction  in  our  undertaking  to  a  country  which  is  now 
in  fearful  contest,  not  for  works  of  art  or  memorials  of  glory,  but 
for  her  own  existence.  Let  her  be  assured  that  she  is  not  for- 
gotten in  the  world,  that  her  efforts  are  applauded,  and  that 
constant  prayers  ascend  for  her  success.  And  let  us  cherish  a 
confident  hope  for  her  final  triumph.  If  the  true  spark  of  reli- 
gious and  civil  liberty  be  kindled,  it  will  burn.  Human  agency 
cannot  extinguish  it.  Like  the  earth's  central  fire,  it  may  be 
smothered  for  a  time ;  the  ocean  may  overwhelm  it ;  mountains 
may  press  it  down ;  but  its  inherent  and  unconquerable  force  will 
heave  both  the  ocean  and  the  land,  and  at  some  time  or  other,  in 
some  place  or  other,  the  volcano  will  break  out,  and  flame  up  to 
heaven. 

Among  the  great  events  of  the  half  century  we  must  reckon, 
certainly,  the  revolution  of  South  America ;  l  and  we  are  not 
likely  to  overrate  the  importance  of  that  revolution,  either  to  the 
people  of  the  country  itself  or  to  the  rest  of  the  world.  The  late 
Spanish  colonies,  now  independent  states,  under  circumstances 
less  favorable,  doubtless,  than  attended  our  own  Revolution,  have 
yet  successfully  commenced  their  national  existence.  They  have 
accomplished  the  great  object  of  establishing  their  independence ; 
they  are  known  and  acknowledged  in  the  world  :  and  although  in 
regard  to  their  systems  of  government,  their  sentiments  on  reli- 
gious toleration,  and  their  provisions  for  public  instruction,  they 
may  have  yet  much  to  learn,  it  must  be  admitted  that  they  have 
risen  to  the  condition  of  settled  and  established  states  more  rap- 
idly than  could  have  been  reasonably  anticipated.  They  already 
furnish  an  exhilarating  example  of  the  difference  between  free 
governments  and  despotic  misrule.  Their  commerce,  at  this 
moment,  creates  a  new  activity  in  all  the  great  marts  of  the 
world.  They  show  themselves  able,  by  an  exchange  of  com- 
modities, to  bear  a  useful  part  in  the  intercourse  of  nations. 

1  The  revolution  of  the  South  American  colonies  was  at  that  time  an  event 
of  but  recent  occurrence.  It  began  in  1810,  and  ended  in  1824,  when  Bolivia, 
the  last  of  the  Spanish  colonies,  was  acknowledged  independent. 


40  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

A  new  spirit  of  enterprise  and  industry  begins  to  prevail  ;  all 
the  great  interests  of  society  receive  a  salutary  impulse  ;  and  the 
progress  of  information  not  only  testifies  to  an  improved  condi- 
tion, but  itself  constitutes  the  highest  and  most  essential  improve- 
ment. 

When  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill  was  fought,  the  existence  of 
South  America  was  scarcely  felt  in  the  civilized  world.  The 
thirteen  little  Colonies  of  North  America  habitually  called  them- 
selves the  "  Continent."  Borne  down  by  colonial  subjugation, 
monopoly,  and  bigotry,  these  vast  regions  of  the  South  were 
hardly  visible  above  the  horizon.  But  in  our  day  there  has 
been,  as  it  were,  a  new  creation.  The  southern  hemisphere 
emerges  from  the  sea.  Its  lofty  mountains  begin  to  lift  them- 
selves into  the  light  of  heaven  ;  it's  broad  and  fertile  plains  stretch 
out  in  beauty  to  the  eye  of  civilized  man  ;  and  at  the  mighty 
bidding  of  the  voice  of  political  liberty  the  waters  of  darkness 
retire. 


And  now  let  us  indulge  an  honest  exultation  in  the  conviction 
of  the  benefit  which  the  example  of  our  country  has  produced, 
and  is  likely  to  produce,  on  human  freedom  and  human  happi- 
ness. Let  us  endeavor  to  comprehend  in  all  its  magnitude,  and 
to  feel  in  all  its  importance,  the  part  assigned  to  us  in  the  great 
drama  of  human  affairs.  We  are  placed  at  the  head  of  the  sys- 
tem of  representative  and  popular  governments.  Thus  far  our 
example  shows  that  such  governments  are  compatible,  not  only 
with  respectability  and  power,  but  with  repose,  with  peace,  with 
security  of  personal  rights,  with  good  laws,  and  a  just  adminis- 
tration. 

We  are  not  propagandists.  Wherever  other  systems  are  pre- 
ferred, either  as  being  thought  better  in  themselves,  or  as  better 
suited  to  existing  condition,  we  leave  the  preference  to  be  en- 
joyed. Our  history  hitherto  proves,  however,  that  the  popular 
form  is  practicable,  and  that  with  wisdom  and  knowledge  men 
may  govern  themselves  ;  and  the  duty  incumbent  on  us  is  to 


THE  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.  41 

preserve  the  consistency  of  this  cheering  example,  and  take  care 
that  nothing  may  weaken  its  authority  with  the  world.  If,  in 
our  case,  the  representative  system  ultimately  fail,  popular  gov- 
ernments must  be  pronounced  impossible.  No  combination  of 
circumstances  more  favorable  to  the  experiment  can  ever  be 
expected  to  occur.  The  last  hopes  of  mankind,  therefore,  rest 
with  us  ;  and  if  it  should  be  proclaimed  that  our  example  had 
become  an  argument  against  the  experiment,  the  knell  of  popular 
liberty  would  be  sounded  throughout  the  earth. 

These  are  excitements  to  duty,  but  they  are  not  suggestions 
of  doubt.  Our  history  and  our  condition,  all  that  is  gone  before 
us,  and  all  that  surrounds  us,  authorize  the  belief  that  popular 
governments,  though  subject  to  occasional  variations,  in  form 
perhaps  not  always  for  the  better,  may  yet,  in  their  general 
character,  be  as  durable  and  permanent  as  other  systems.  We 
know,  indeed,  that  in  our  country  any  other  is  impossible.  The 

adheres  to  the  American  soil.     It 


is  bejlded  in  it,  immovable  as  its  mountains. 

And  let  the  sacred  obligations  which  have  devolved  on  this 
generation  and  on  us  sink  deep  into  our  hearts.  Those  who 
established  our  liberty  and  our  government  are  daily  dropping 
from  among  us.  The  great  trust  now  descends  to  new  hands. 
Let  us  apply  ourselves  to  that  which  is  presented  to  us  as  our 
appropriate  object.  We  can  win  no  laurels  in  a  war  for  inde- 
pendence. Earlier  and  worthier  hands  have  gathered  them  all. 
Nor  are  there  places  for  us  by  the  side  of  Solon  l  and  Alfred  2 
and  other  founders  of  states.  Our  fathers  have  filled  them. 
But  there  remains  to  us  a  great  duty  of  defense  and  preserva- 
tion ;  and  there  is  opened  to  us,  also,  a  noble  pursuit  to  which 
the  spirit  of  the  times  strongly  invites  us.  Our  proper  business 

1  Solon,  the  most  famous  of  the  lawgivers  of  ancient  Greece  (born  about 
638  B.C.),  established  a  new  code  of  laws  for  Athens. 

2  King  Alfred  the  Great,  of  England  (849-901),  reduced  the  Anglo-Saxon 
laws  to  a  system,  and  made-  great  improvements  in  the  administration  of  jus- 
tice.    He  is  sometimes  regarded  as  the  founder  of  the  English  monarchy. 


42  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

is  improvement.  Let  our  age  be  the  age  of  improvement.  In 
a  day  of  peace,  let  us  advance  the  arts  of  peace  and  the  works 
of  peace.  Let  us  develop  the  resources  of  our  land,  call  forth  its 
powers,  build  up  its  institutions,  promote  all  its  great  interests, 
and  see  whether  we  also,  in  our  day  and  generation,  may  not  per- 
form something  worthy  to  be  remembered.  Let  us  cultivate  a 
true  spirit  of  union  and  harmony.  In  pursuing  the  great  objects 
which  our  condition  points  out  to  us,  let  us  act  under  a  settled 
conviction  and  an  habitual  feeling,  that  these  twenty-four  States 
are  o»e  country.  Let  our  conceptions  be  enlarged  to  the  circle 
of  our  duties.  Let  us  extend  our  ideas  over  the  whole  of  the 
vast  field  in  which  we  are  called  to  act.  Let  our  object  be,  OUR 

COUNTRY,  OUR  WHOLE  COUNTRY,  AND  NOTHING  BUT  OUR  COUN- 
TRY. And,  by  the  blessing  of  God,  may  that  country  itself 
become  a  vast  and  splendid  monument,  not  of  oppression  and 
terror,  but  of  Wisdom,  of  Peace,  and  of  Liberty,  upon  which 
the  world  may  gaze  with  admiration  forever  ! 


THE    COMPLETION    OF   THE    BUNKER 
HILL   MONUMENT. 

AN    ADDRESS    DELIVERED    ON    BUNKER    HILL,    ON    THE    I'JTH.    OF 

JUNE,   1843,  ON    THE    OCCASION    OF    THE    COMPLETION 

OF  THE    MONUMENT. 


A  DUTY  has  been  performed.    A  work  of  gratitude  and  patri- 
otism is  completed.     This  structure,  having  its  foundations 
in  soil  which  drank  deep  of  early  Revolutionary  blood,  has  at 
length  reached  its  destined  height,  and  now  lifts  its  summit  to  the 
skies. 

We  have  assembled  to  celebrate  the  accomplishment  of  this 
undertaking,  and  to  indulge  afresh  in  the  recollection  of  the  great 
event  which  it  is  designed  to  commemorate.  Eighteen  years, 
more  than  half  the  ordinary  duration  of  a  generation  of  man- 
kind, have  elapsed  since  the  corner  stone  of  this  monument  was 
laid.  The  hopes  of  its  projectors  rested  on  voluntary  contribu- 
tions, private  munificence,  and  the  general  favor  of  the  public. 
These  hopes  have  not  been  disappointed.  Donations  have  been 
made  by  individuals,  in  some  cases  of  large  amount ;  and  smaller 
sums  have  been  contributed  by  thousands.  All  who  regard  the 
object  itself  as  important,  and  its  accomplishment,  therefore,  as 
a  good  attained,  will  entertain  sincere  respect  and  gratitude  for 
the  unwearied  efforts  of  the  successive  presidents,  boards  of 
directors,  and  committees  of  the  Association  which  has  had  the 
general  control  of  the  work.  The  architect,  equally  entitled  to 

«       43 


44  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

our  thanks  and  commendation,  will  find  other  reward,  also,  for 
his  labor  and  skill,  in  the  beauty  and  elegance  of  the  obelisk 
itself,  and  the  distinction  which,  as  a  work  of  art,  it  confers  upon 
him. 

At  a  period  when  the  prospects  of  further  progress  in  the 
undertaking  were  gloomy  and  discouraging,  the  Mechanic  Asso- 
ciation, by  a  most  praiseworthy  and  vigorous  effort,  raised  new 
funds  for  carrying  it  forward,  and  saw  them  applied  with  fidelity, 
economy,  and  skill.  It  is  a  grateful  duty  to  make  public  acknowl- 
edgments of  such  timely  and  efficient  aid. 

The  last  effort  and  the  last  contribution  were  from  a  different 
source.  Garlands  of  grace  and  elegance  were  destined  to  crown 
a  work  which  had  its  commencement  in  manly  patriotism.  The 
winning  power  of  the  sex  addressed  itself- -to  the  public,  and  all 
that  was  needed  to  carry  the  monument  to  its  proposed  height, 
and  to  give  to  it  its  finish,  was  promptly  supplied.  The  mothers 
and  the  daughters  of  the  land  contributed  thus,  most  successfully, 
to  whatever  there  is  of  beauty  in  the  monument  itself,  or  what- 
ever of  utility  and  public  benefit  and  gratification  there  is  in  its 
completion. 

Of  those  with  whom  the  plan  originated,  of  erecting  on  this 
spot  a  monument  worthy  of  the  event  to  be  commemorated, 
many  are  now  present ;  but  others,  alas  !  have  themselves  be- 
come subjects  of  monumental  inscription.  William  Tudor — an 
accomplished  scholar,  a  distinguished  writer,  a  most  amiable 
man,  allied  both  by  birth  and  sentiment  to  the  patriots  of  the 
Revolution  —  died  while  on  public  service  abroad,  and  now  lies 
buried  in  a  foreign  land.1  William  Sullivan  —  a  name  fragrant  of 
Revolutionary  merit  and  of  public  service  and  public  virtue,  who 
himself  partook  in  a  high  degree  of  the  respect  and  confidence 
of  the  community,  and  yet  was  always  most  loved  where  best 
known  —  has  also  been  gathered  to  his  fathers.  And  last,  George 
Blake  —  a  lawyer  of  learning  and  eloquence,  a  man  of  wit  and  of 

1  William  Tudor  died  at  Rio  de  Janeiro,  while  Charge  d* Affaires  of  the 
United  States,  in  1830.  See  Introduction. 


SECOND  BUNKER  HILL  ADDRESS.  45 

talent,  of  social  qualities  the  most  agreeable  and  fascinating,  and 
of  gifts  which  enabled  him  to  exercise  large  sway  over  public 
assemblies — has  closed  his  human  career.1  I  know  that  in  the 
crowds  before  me  there  are  those  from  whose  eyes  tears  will 
flow  at  the  mention  of  these  names.  But  such  mention  is  due 
to  their  general  character,  their  public  and  private  virtues,  and 
especially,  on  this  occasion,  to  the  spirit  and  zeal  with  which 
they  entered  into  the  undertaking  which  is  now  completed. 

I  have  spoken  only  of  those  who  are  no  longer  numbered  with 
the  living.  But  a  long  life,  now  drawing  towards  its  close,  al- 
ways distinguished  by  acts  of  public  spirit,  humanity,  and  charity, 
forming  a  character  which  has  already  become  historical,  and 
sanctified  by  public  regard  and  the  affection  of  friends,  may 
confer  even  on  the  living  the  proper  immunity  of  the  dead,  and 
be  the  fit  subject  of  honorable  mention  and  warm  commendation. 
Of  the  early  projectors  of  the  design  of  this  monument,  one  of 
the  most  prominent,  the  most  zealous,  and  the  most  efficient,  is 
Thomas  H.  Perkins.2  It  was  beneath  his  ever  hospitable  roof 
that  those  whom  I  have  mentioned,  and  others  yet  living  and 
now  present,  having  assembled  for  the  purpose,  adopted  the  first 
step  towards  erecting  a  monument  on  Bunker  Hill.  Long  may 
he  remain,  with  unimpaired  faculties,  in  the  wide  field  of  his 
usefulness  !  His  charities  have  distilled  like  the  dews  of  heaven ; 
he  has  fed  the  hungry,  and  clothed  the  naked;  he  has  given 
sight  to  the  blind :  and  for  such  virtues  there  is  a  reward  on 
high  of  which  all  human  memorials,  all  language  of  brass  and 
stone,  are  but  humble  types  and  attempted  imitations. 

Time  and  nature  have  had  their  course  in  diminishing  the 
number  of  those  whom  we  met  here  on  the  ryth  of  June,  1825. 
Most  of  the  Revolutionary  characters  then  present  have  since 

1  William  Sullivan  died  in  Boston  in  1839,  George  Blake,  in  1841 ;  both 
gentlemen  of  great  political  and  legal  eminence. 

2  Thomas  Handasyd  Perkins,  a  distinguished  merchant  and  philanthropist 
of  Boston,  founder  of  the  Perkins  Institution  and  Massachusetts  School  for 
the  Blind.     He  died  Jan.  II,  1854. 


46  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

deceased  ;  and  Lafayette  sleeps  in  his  native  land.  Yet  the  name 
and  blood  of  Warren  are  with  us ;  the  kindred  of  Putnam  are 
also  here ;  and  near  me,  universally  beloved  for  his  character 
and  his  virtues,  and  now  venerable  for  his  years,  sits  the  son 
of  the  noble- hearted  and  daring  Prescott.1  Gideon  Foster  of 
Danvers,  Enos  Reynolds  of  Boxford,  Phineas  Johnson,  Robert 
Andrews,  Elijah  Dresser,  Josiah  Cleaveland,  Jesse  Smith,  Philip 
Bagley,  Needham  Maynard,  Roger  Plaisted,  Joseph  Stephens, 
Nehemiah  Porter,  and  James  Harvey,  who  bore  arms  for  their 
country,  either  at  Concord  and  Lexington  on  the  iQth  of  April, 
or  on  Bunker  Hill,  all  now  far  advanced  in  age,  have  come  here 
to-day  to  look  once  more  on  the  field  where  their  valor  was 
proved,  and  to  receive  a  hearty  outpouring  of  our  respect. 

They  have  long  outlived  the  troubles  and  dangers  of  the  Revo- 
lution ;  they  have  outlived  the  evils  arising  from  the  want  of  a 
united  and  efficient  government ;  they  have  outlived  the  menace 
of  imminent  dangers  to  the  public  liberty ;  they  have  outlived 
nearly  all  their  contemporaries :  but  they  have  not  outlived,  they 
cannot  outlive,  the  affectionate  gratitude  of  their  country.  Heav- 
en has  not  allotted  to  this  generation  an  opportunity  of  rendering 
high  services,  and  manifesting  strong  personal  devotion,  such  as 
they  rendered  and  manifested,  and  in  such  a  cause  as  that  which 
roused  the  patriotic  fires  of  their  youthful  breasts,  and  nerved  the 
strength  of  their  arms.  But  we  may  praise  what  we  cannot  equal, 
and  celebrate  actions  which  we  were  not  born  to  perform.  Pul- 
chrum  est  benefacere  reipublicce,  etiam  benedicere  hand  absurdum  est. 

The  Bunker  Hill  Monument  is  finished.  Here  it  stands.  For- 
tunate in  the  high  natural  eminence  on  which  it  is  placed,  higher, 
infinitely  higher,  in  its  objects  and  purpose,  it  rises  over  the  land 
and  over  the  sea ;  and,  visible  at  their  homes  to  three  hundred 
thousand  of  the  people  of  Massachusetts,  it  stands  a  memorial 
of  the  last,  and  a  monitor  to  the  present,  and  to  all  succeeding 

1  "  William  Prescott  (since  deceased,  in  1844),  son  of  Col.  William  Pres- 
cott, who  commanded  on  the  iyth  of  June,  1775,  and  father  of  William  H. 
Prescott,  the  historian."  —  EVERETT. 


SECOND  BUNKER  HILL  ADDRESS.  47 

generations.  I  have  spoken  of  the  loftiness  of  its  purpose.  If 
it  had  been  without  any  other  design  than  the  creation  of  a  work 
of  art,  the  granite  of  which  it  is  composed  would  have  slept  in 
its  native  bed.  It  has  a  purpose,  and  that  purpose  gives  it  its 
character.  That  purpose  enrobes  it  with  dignity  and  moral 
grandeur.  That  well-known  purpose  it  is  which  causes  us  to 
look  up  to  it  with  a  feeling  of  awe.  It  is  itself  the  orator  of  this 
occasion.  It  is  not  from  my  lips,  it  could  not  be  from  any  hu- 
man lips,  that  that  strain  of  eloquence  is  this  day  to  flow  most 
competent  to  move  and  excite  the  vast  multitudes  around  me. 
The  powerful  speaker  stands  motionless  before  us.1  It  is  a  plain 
shaft.  It  bears  no  inscriptions,  fronting  to  the  rising  sun,  from 
which  the  future  antiquary  shall  wipe  the  dust.  Nor  does  the 
rising  sun  cause  tones  of  music  to  issue  from  its  summit.  But 
at  the  rising  of  the  sun  and  at  the  setting  of  the  sun,  in  the 
blaze  of  noonday,  and  beneath  the  milder  effulgence  of  lunar 
light,  it  looks,  it  speaks,  it  acts,  to  the  full  comprehension  of 
every  American  mind,  and  the  awakening  of  glowing  enthusiasm 
in  every  American  heart.  Its  silent  but  awful  utterance ;  its 
deep  pathos  as  it  brings  to  our  contemplation  the  i  yth  of  June, 
1775,  and  the  consequences  which  have  resulted  to  us,  to  our 
country,  and  to  the  world,  from  the  events  of  that  day,  and  which 
we  know  must  continue  to  rain  influence  on  the  destinies  of  man- 
kind to  the  end  of  time  ;  the  elevation  with  which  it  raises  us  high 
above  the  ordinary  feelings  of  life,  —  surpass  all  that  the  study  of 
the  closet,  or  even  the  inspiration  of  genius,  can  produce.  To-day 
it  speaks  to  us :  its  future  auditories  will  be  the  successive  gen- 
erations of  men  as  they  rise  up  before  it  and  gather  around  it. 
Its  speech  will  be  of  patriotism  and  courage,  of  civil  and  religious 
liberty,  of  free  government,  of  the  moral  improvement  and  eleva- 
tion of  mankind,  and  of  the  immortal  memory  of  those  who,  with 
heroic  devotion,  have  sacrificed  their  lives  for  their  country. 

1  It  is  related  that  at  this  point  in  his  speech  the  orator  was  interrupted  by 
a  spontaneous  burst  of  applause  from  his  hearers,  and  that  such  was  their 
enthusiasm,  that  it  was  several  moments  before  he  could  proceed. 


48  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

In  the  older  world,  numerous  fabrics  still  exist,  reared  by  hu- 
man hands,  but  whose  object  has  been  lost  in  the  darkness  of 
ages.  They  are  now  monuments  of  nothing  but  the  labor  and 
skill  which  constructed  them. 

The  mighty  Pyramid  itself,  half  buried  in  the  sands  of  Africa,  has 
nothing  to  bring  down  and  report  to  us  but  the  power  of  kings 
and  the  servitude  of  the  people.  If  it  had  any  purpose  beyond 
that  of  a  mausoleum,  such  purpose  has  perished  from  history  and 
from  tradition.  If  asked  for  its  moral  object,  its  admonition,  its 
sentiment,  its  instruction  to  mankind,  or  any  high  end  in  its  erec- 
tion, it  is  silent,  —  silent  as  the  millions  which  lie  in  the  dust  at  its 
base,  and  in  the  catacombs  which  surround  it.  Without  a  just 
moral  object,  therefore,  made  known  to  man,  though  raised 
against  the  skies,  it  excites  only  conviction  of  power  mixed  with 
strange  wonder.  But  if  the  civilization  of  the  present  race  of 
men  —  founded  as  it  is  in  solid  science,  the  true  knowledge  of 
nature,  and  vast  discoveries  in  art,  and  which  is  elevated  and 
purified  by  moral  sentiment  and  by  the  truths  of  Christianity — be 
not  destined  to  destruction  before  the  final  termination  of  human 
existence  on  earth,  the  object  and  purpose  of  this  edifice  will  be 
known  till  that  hour  shall  come.  And  even  if  civilization  should 
be  subverted,  and  the  truths  of  the  Christian  religion  obscured 
by  a  new  deluge  of  barbarism,  the  memory  of  Bunker  Hill  and 
the  American  Revolution  will  still  be  elements  and  parts  of  the 
knowledge  which  shall  be  possessed  by  the  last  man  to  whom 
the  light  of  civilization  and  Christianity  shall  be  extended. 

This  celebration  is  honored  by  the  presence  of  the  chief  execu^ 
tive  magistrate  of  the  Union.  An  occasion  so  national  in  its 
object  and  character,  and  so  much  connected  with  that  Revolu- 
tion from  which  the  government  sprang  at  the  head  of  which  he 
is  placed,  may  well  receive  from  him  this  mark  of  attention  and 
respect.  Well  acquainted  with  Yorktown,1  the  scene  of  the  last 

1  President  Tyler  was  a  native  of  Virginia,  and  his  birthplace  was  within 
less  than  forty  miles  of  Yorktown.  The  surrender  of  the  British  army  under 
Cornwallis,  at  Yorktown,  occurred  Oct.  19,  1781. 


SECOND  BUNKER  HILL  ADDRESS.  49 

great  military  struggle  of  the  Revolution,  his  eye  now  surveys 
the  field  of  Bunker  Hill,  the  theater  of  the  first  of  those  impor- 
tant conflicts.  He  sees  where  Warren  fell,  where  Putnam  and 
Prescott  and  Stark  and  Knowlton  and  Brooks  fought.  He 
beholds  the  spot  where  a  thousand  trained  soldiers  of  England 
were  smitten  to  the  earth,  in  the  first  effort  of  revolutionary  war, 
by  the  arm  of  a  bold  and  determined  yeomanry  contending  for 
liberty  and  their  country.  And  while  all  assembled  here  enter- 
tain towards  him  sincere  personal  good  wishes  and  the  high  re- 
spect due  to  his  elevated  office  and  station,  it  is  not  to  be  doubted 
that  he  enters  with  true  American  feeling  into  the  patriotic  en- 
thusiasm kindled  by  the  occasion  which  animates  the  multitudes 
that  surround  him. 

His  Excellency  the  Governor  of  the  Commonwealth,  the  Gov- 
ernor of  Rhode  Island,  and  the  other  distinguished  public  men 
whom  we  have  the  honor  to  receive  as  visitors  and  guests  to-day, 
will  cordially  unite  in  a  celebration  connected  with  the  great  event 
of  the  Revolutionary  War. 

No  name  in  the  history  of  1775  and  1776  is  more  distinguished 
than  that  borne  by  an  ex-president  of  the  United  States,1  whom 
we  expected  to  see  here,  but  whose  ill  health  prevents  his  attend- 
ance. Whenever  popular  rights  were  to  be  asserted,  an  Adams 
was  present ;  and  when  the  time  came  for  the  formal  Declaration 
of  Independence,  it  was  the  voice  of  an  Adams  that  shook  the 
halls  of  Congress.  We  wish  we  could  have  welcomed  to  us  this 
day  the  inheritor  of  Revolutionary  blood,  and  the  just  and  worthy 
representative  of  high  Revolutionary  names,  merit,  and  services. 

Banners  and  badges,  processions  and  flags,  announce  to  us 
that  amidst  this  uncounted  throng  are  thousands  of  natives  of 
New  England  now  residents  in  other  States.  Welcome,  ye  kin- 
dred names,  with  kindred  blood  !  From  the  broad  savannas  2 
of  the  South,  from  the  newer  regions  of  the  West,  from  amidst 

1  John  Quincy  Adams  (1767-1848),  the  sixth  President  of  the  United  States 
(1825-29). 

2  Plains,  or  meadows. 


50  .    .  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

the  hundreds  of  thousands  of  men  of  Eastern  origin  who  culti- 
vate the  rich  valley  of  the  Genesee,  or  live  along  the  chain  of 
the  Lakes,  from  the  mountains  of  Pennsylvania,  and  from  the 
thronged  cities  of  the  coast,  welcome,  welcome  !  Wherever  else 
you  may  be  strangers,  here  you  are  all  at  home.  You  assemble 
at  this  shrine  of  liberty,  near  the  family  altars  at  which  your  ear- 
liest devotions  were  paid  to  Heaven,  near  to  the  temples  of 
worship  first  entered  by  you,  and  near  to  the  schools  and  colleges 
in.  which  your  education  was  received.  You  come  hither  with  a 
glorious  ancestry  of  liberty.  You  bring  names  which  are  on  the 
rolls  of  Lexington,  Concord,  and  Bunker  Hill.  You  come,  some 
of  you,  once  more  to  be  embraced  by  an  aged  Revolutionary 
father,  or  to  receive  another,  perhaps  a  last,  blessing,  bestowed  in 
love  and  tears,  by  a  mother,  yet  surviving  to  witness  and  to 
enjoy  your  prosperity  and  happiness. 

But  if  family  associations  and  the  recollections  of  the  past 
bring  you  hither  with  greater  alacrity,  and  mingle  with  your 
greeting  much  of  local  attachment  and  private  affection,  greeting 
also  be  given,  free  and  hearty  greeting,  to  every  American  citizen 
who  treads  this  sacred  soil  with  patriotic  feeling,  and  respires  with 
pleasure  in  an  atmosphere  perfumed  with  the  recollections  of 
1775  !  This  occasion  is  respectable,1  nay,  it  is  grand,  it  is  sub- 
lime, by  the  nationality  of  its  sentiment.  Among  the  seventeen 
millions  of  happy  people  who  form  the  American  community, 
there  is  not  one  who  has  not  an  interest  in  this  monument,  as 
there  is  not  one  that  has  not  a  deep  and  abiding  interest  in  that 
which  it  commemorates. 

Woe  betide  the  man  who  brings  to  this  day's  worship  feeling 
less  than  wholly  American  !  Woe  betide  the  man  who  can  stand 
here  with  the  fires  of  local  resentments  burning,  or  the  purpose 
of  fomenting  local  jealousies  and  the  strifes  of  local  interests  fes- 
tering and  rankling  in  his  heart  !  Union,  established  in  justice, 
in  patriotism,  and  the  most  plain  and  obvious  common  interest; 

1  This  is  a  favorite  word  with  Webster,  and  he  often  gives  to  it  an  unusual 
significance. 


SECOND  BUNKER  HILL  ADDRESS.  51 

union,  founded  on  the  same  love  of  liberty,  cemented  by  blood 
shed  in  the  same  common  cause,  —  union  has  been  the  source  of 
all  our  glory  and  greatness  thus  far,  and  is  the  ground  of  all  our 
highest  hopes.  This  column  stands  on  union.  I  know  not  that 
it  might  not  keep  its  position  if  the  American  Union,  in  the  mad 
conflict  of  human  passions,  and  in  the  strife  of  parties  and  fac- 
tions, should  be  broken  up  and  destroyed.  I  know  not  that  it 
would  totter  and  fall  to  the  earth,  and  mingle  its  fragments  with 
the  fragments  of  Liberty  and  the  Constitution,  when  State  should 
be  separated  from  State,  and  faction  and  dismemberment  obliter- 
ate forever  all  the  hopes  of  the  founders  of  our  Republic  and  the 
great  inheritance  of  their  children.  It  might  stand.  But  who, 
from  beneath  the  weight  of  mortification  and  shame  that  would 
oppress  him,  could  look  up  to  behold  it  ?  Whose  eyeballs  would 
not  be  seared  by  such  a  spectacle  ?  For  my  part,  should  I  live 
to  such  a  time,  I  shall  avert  my  eyes  from  it  forever. 

It  is  not  as  a  mere  military  encounter  of  hostile  armies  that 
the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill  presents  its  principal  claim  to  attention. 
Yet,  even  as  a  mere  battle,  there  were  circumstances  attending 
it  extraordinary  in  character,  and  entitling  it  to  peculiar  distinc- 
tion. It  was  fought  on  this  eminence,  in  the  neighborhood  of 
yonder  city,  in  the  presence  of  many  more  spectators  than  there 
were  combatants  in  the  conflict.  Men,  women,  and  children, 
from  every  commanding  position,  were  gazing  at  the  battle,  and 
looking  for  its  results  with  all  the  eagerness  natural  to  those  who 
knew  that  the  issue  was  fraught  with  the  deepest  consequences 
to  themselves  personally,  as  well  as  to  their  country.  Yet  on  the 
1 6th  of  June,  1775,  there  was  nothing  around  this  hill  but  ver- 
dure and  culture.  There  was,  indeed,  the  note  of  awful  prepara- 
tion in  Boston.  There  was  the  Provincial  army  at  Cambridge, 
with  its  right  flank  resting  on  Dorchester,  and  its  left  on  Chelsea. 
But  here  all  was  peace.  Tranquillity  reigned  around.  On  the 
1 7th,  everything  was  changed.  On  this  eminence  had  arisen,  in 
the  night,  a  redoubt,  built  by  Prescott,  and  in  which  he  held 
command.  Perceived  by  the  enemy  at  dawn,  it  was  immediately 


52  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

cannonaded  from  the  floating  batteries  in  the  river,  and  from  the 
opposite  shore.  And  then  ensued  the  hurried  movement  in  Bos- 
ton, and  soon  the  troops  of  Britain  embarked  in  the  attempt  to 
dislodge  the  colonists.  In  an  hour  everything  indicated  an  im- 
mediate and  bloody  conflict.  Love  of  liberty  on  one  side,  proud 
defiance  of  rebellion  on  the  other,  hopes  and  fears,  and  courage 
and  daring,  on  both  sides,  animated  the  hearts  of  the  combatants 
as  they  hung  on  the  edge  of  battle. 

I  suppose  it  would  be  difficult,  in  a  military  point  of  view,  to 
ascribe  to  the  leaders  on  either  side  any  just  motive  for  the  en- 
gagement which  followed.  On  the  one  hand,  it  could  not  have 
been  very  important  to  the  Americans  to  attempt  to  hem  the 
British  within  the  town,  by  advancing  one  single  post  a  quarter 
of  a  mile ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  if  the  British  found  it  essen- 
tial to  dislodge  the  American  troops,  they  had  it  in  their  power 
at  no  expense  of  life.  By  moving  up  their  ships  and  batteries, 
they  could  have  completely  cut  off  all  communication  with  the 
mainland  over  the  Neck,  and  the  forces  in  the  redoubt  would 
have  been  reduced  to  a  state  of  famine  in  forty-eight  hours. 

But  that  was  not  the  day  for  any  such  consideration  on  either 
side.  Both  parties  were  anxious  to  try  the  strength  of  their 
arms.  The  pride  of  England  would  not  permit  the  "rebels,"  as 
she  termed  them,  to  defy  her  to  the  teeth ;  and,  without  for  a 
moment  calculating  the  cost,  the  British  general  determined  to 
destroy  the  fort  immediately.  On  the  other  side,  Prescott  and 
his  gallant  followers  longed  and  thirsted  for  a  decisive  trial  of 
strength  and  of  courage.  They  wished  a  battle,  and  wished  it 
at  once.  And  this  is  the  true  secret  of  the  movements  on  this  hill. 

I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  that  battle.  The  cannonading, 
the  landing  of  the  British,  their  advance,  the  coolness  with 
which  the  charge  was  met,  the  repulse,  the  second  attack,  the 
second  repulse,  the  burning  of  Charlestown,  and  finally  the 
closing  assault  and  the  slow  retreat  of  the  Americans,  —  the  his- 
tory of  all  these  is  familiar. 

But  the  consequences  of  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill  were  greater 


SECOND   BUNKER  HILL  ADDRESS.  53 

than  those  of  any  ordinary  conflict,  although  between  armies  of 
far  greater  force,  and  terminating  with  more  immediate  advan- 
tage on  the  one  side  or  the  other.  It  was  the  first  great  battle 
of  the  Revolution,  and  not  only  the  first  blow,  but  the  blow 
which  determined  the  contest.  It  did  not,  indeed,  put  an  end 
to  the  war ;  but,  in  the  then  existing  hostile  state  of  feeling,  the 
difficulties  could  only  be  referred  to  the  arbitration  of  the  sword. 
And  one  thing  is  certain,  —  that,  after  the  New-England  troops 
had  shown  themselves  able  to  face  and  repulse  the  regulars,  it 
was  decided  that  peace  never  could  be  established  but  upon  the 
basis  of  the  independence  of  the  Colonies.  When  the  sun  of 
that  day  went  down,  the  event  of  independence  was  no  longer 
doubtful.  In  a  few  days  Washington  heard  of  the  battle,  and 
he  inquired  if  the  militia  had  stood  the  fire  of  the  regulars.  When 
told  that  they  had  not  only  stood  that  fire,  but  reserved  their 
own  till  the  enemy  was  within  eight  rods,  and  then  poured  it  in 
with  tremendous  effect,  "  Then,"  exclaimed  he,  "  the  liberties  of 
the  country  are  safe  ! " 

The  consequences  of  this  battle  were  just  of  the  same  impor- 
tance as  the  Revolution  itself. 

If  there  was  nothing  of  value  in  the  principles  of  the  American 
Revolution,  then  there  is  nothing  valuable  in  the  battle  of  Bunker 
Hill  and  its  consequences.  But  if  the  Revolution  was  an  era  in 
the  history  of  man  favorable  to  human  happiness,  if  it  was  an 
event  which  marked  the  progress  of  man  all  over  the  world  from 
despotism  to  liberty,  then  this  monument  is  not  raised  without 
cause.  Then  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill  is  not  an  event  unde- 
serving celebrations,  commemorations,  and  rejoicings,  now  and 
in  all  coming  times. 

What,  then,  is  the  true  and  peculiar  principle  of  the  American 
Revolution,  and  of  the  systems  of  government  which  it  has  con- 
firmed and  established  ?  The  truth  is,  that  the  American  Revo- 
lution was  not  caused  by  the  instantaneous  discovery  of  principles 
of  government  before  unheard  of,  or  the  practical  adoption  of 
political  ideas  such  as  had  never  before  entered  into  the  minds 


54  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

of  men.  It  was  but  the  full  development  of  principles  of  gov- 
ernment, forms  of  society,  and  political  sentiments,  the  origin  of 
all  which  lay  back  two  centuries  in  English  and  American  history. 
The  discovery  of  America,  its  colonization  by  the  nations  of 
Europe,  the  history  and  progress  of  the  Colonies,  from  their 
establishment  to  the  time  when  the  principal  of  them  threw  off 
their  allegiance  to  the  respective  states  by  which  they  had  been 
planted,  and  founded  governments  of  their  own,  constitute  one 
of  the  most  interesting  portions  of  the  annals  of  man.  These 
events  occupied  three  hundred  years,  during  which  period  civil- 
ization and  knowledge  made  steady  progress  in  the  Old  World ; 
so  that  Europe,  at  the  commencement  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
had  become  greatly  changed  from  that  Europe  which  began  the 
colonization  of  America  at  the  close  of  the  fifteenth  or  the  com- 
mencement of  the  sixteenth.  And  what  is  most  material  to  my 
present  purpose  is,  that  in  the  progress  of  the  first  of  these  cen- 
turies, that  is  to  say,  from  the  discovery  of  America  to  the  settle- 
ments of  Virginia  and  Massachusetts,  political  and  religious 
events  took  place  which  most  materially  affected  the  state  of 
society  and  the  sentiments  of  mankind,  especially  in  England 
and  in  parts  of  Continental  Europe.  After  a  few  feeble  and 
unsuccessful  efforts  by  England,  under  Henry  VII.,1  to  plant 
colonies  in  America,  no  designs  of  that  kind  were  prosecuted  for 
a  long  period,  either  by  the  English  Government  or  any  of  its 
subjects.  Without  inquiring  into  the  causes  of  this  delay,  its 
consequences  are  sufficiently  clear  and  striking.  England,  in 
this  lapse  of  a  century,  unknown  to  herself,  but  under  the  provi- 
dence of  God  and  the  influence  of  events,  was  fitting  herself  for 
the  work  of  colonizing  North  America,  on  such "  principles,  and 
by  such  men,  as  should  spread  the  English  name  and  English 
blood,  in  time,  over  a  great  portion  of  the  Western  hemisphere. 

1  It  was  during  the  reign  of  Henry  VII.  that  John  Cabot,  under  a  royal 
commission,  discovered  the  coast  of  North  America,  — a  discovery  upon  which 
the  subsequent  claims  of  the  English  to  jurisdiction  on  this  continent  were 
based. 


SECOND  -BUNKER  HILL  ADDRESS.    •  55 

The  commercial  spirit  was  greatly  fostered  by  several  laws 
passed  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VII. ;  and  in  the  same  reign  en- 
couragement was  given  to  arts  and  manufactures  in  the  eastern 
counties,  and  some  not  unimportant  modifications  of  the  feudal 
system  took  place  by  allowing  the  breaking  of  entails.1  These 
and  other  measures,  and  other  occurrences,  were  making  way  for 
a  new  class  of  society  to  emerge  and  show  itself  in  a  military 
and  feudal  age ;  a  middle  class,  between  the  barons  or  great 
landholders  and  the  retainers  of  the  Crown  on  the  one  side,  and 
the  tenants  of  the  Crown  and  barons,  and  agricultural  and  other 
laborers,  on  the  other  side.  With  the  rise  and  growth  of  this 
new  class  of  society,  not  only  did  commerce  and  the  arts  in- 
crease, but  better  education,  a  greater  degree  of  knowledge, 
juster  notions  of  the  true  ends  of  government,  and  sentiments 
favorable  to  civil  liberty,  began  to  spread  abroad,  and  become 
more  and  more  common.  But  the  plants  springing  from  these 
seeds  were  of  slow  growth.  The  character  of  English  society 
had  indeed  begun  to  undergo  a  change ;  but  changes  of  national 
character  are  ordinarily  the  work  of  time.  Operative  causes 
were,  however,  evidently  in  existence,  and  sure  to  produce, 
ultimately,  their  proper  effect.  From  the  accession  of  Henry 
VII.  to  the  breaking  out  of  the  civil  wars,2  England  enjoyed 
much  greater  exemption  from  war,  foreign  and  domestic,  than 
for  a  long  period  before,  and  during  the  controversy  between  the 
houses  of  York  and  Lancaster.3  These  years  of  peace  were  fa- 
vorable to  commerce  and  the  arts.  Commerce  and  the  arts  aug- 
mented general  and  individual  knowledge ;  and  knowledge  is  the 
only  fountain,  both  of  the  love  and  the  principles  of  human  liberty. 

1  Laws  forbidding  the  owner  of  an  estate  to  transfer  it  to  any  person  ex- 
cept the  legal  heir. 

2  That  is,  from  1485  to  about  1640. 

3  This  conflict  between  the  two  great  families  of  England,  each  claiming 
the  right  to  the  royal  succession,  is  known  in  history  as  the  War  of  the 
Roses.     It  began  in  1455,  and  continued  until  the  death  of  Richard  III.  in 
1485. 


56  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

Other  powerful  causes  soon  came  into  active  play.  The  Ref- 
ormation of  Luther1  broke  out,  kindling  up  the  minds  of  men 
afresh,  leading  to  new  habits  of  thought,  and  awakening  in  indi- 
viduals energies  before  unknown  even  to  themselves.  The  reli- 
gious controversies  of  this  period  changed  society  as  well  as  re- 
ligion :  indeed,  it  would  be  easy  to  prove,  if  this  occasion  were 
proper  for  it,  that  they  changed  society  to  a  considerable  extent, 
where  they  did  not  change  the  religion  of  the  state.  They 
changed  man  himself,  in  his  modes  of  thought,  his  consciousness 
of  his  own  powers,  and  his  desire  of  intellectual  attainment.  The 
spirit  of  commercial  and  foreign  adventure,  therefore,  on  the  one 
hand,  which  had  gained  so  much  strength  and  influence  since  the 
time  of  the  discovery  of  America ;  and,  on  the  other,  the  assertion 
and  maintenance  of  religious  liberty,  having  their  source  indeed 
in  the  Reformation,  but  continued,  diversified,  and  constantly 
strengthened  by  the  subsequent  divisions  of  sentiment  and  opin- 
ion among  the  Reformers  themselves ;  and  this  love  of  religious 
liberty,  drawing  after  it,  or  bringing  along  with  it,  as  it  always 
does,  an  ardent  devotion  to  the  principle  of  civil  liberty  also, — 
were  the  powerful  influences  under  which  character  was  formed, 
and  men  trained,  for  the  great  work  of  introducing  English  civil- 
ization, English  law,  and,  what  is  more  than  all,  Anglo-Saxon 
blood,  into  the  wilderness  of  North  America.  Raleigh  2  and  his 
companions  may  be  considered  as  the  creatures,  principally,  of 
the  first  of  these  causes.  High-spirited,  full  of  the  love  of  per- 
sonal adventure,  excited,  too,  in  some  degree,  by  the  hopes  of 
sudden  riches  from  the  discovery  of  mines  of  the  precious  metals, 
and  not  unwilling  to  diversify  the  labors  of  settling  a  colony  with 
occasional  cruising  against  the  Spaniards  in  the  West  Indian  seas, 

1  This  great  religious  and  political  movement,  which  engaged  the  attention 
of  a  large  portion  of  Europe  during  the  sixteenth  century,  is  so  called  from 
Martin  Luther,   its  most    distinguished  promoter.      The    Reformation  was 
begun  in  Switzerland  by  Zwingli  in   1516;  in  Germany,  by  Luther  in  1517* 
and  in  England,  by  Henry  VIII.  in  1534. 

2  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  (1552-1618). 


SECOND  BUNKER  HILL  ADDRESS.  57 

they  crossed  and  recrossed  the  ocean  with  a  frequency  which 
surprises  us  when  we  consider  the  state  of  navigation,  and  which 
evinces  a  most  daring  spirit. 

The  other  cause  peopled  New  England.  The  "  Mayflower  " 
sought  our  shores  under  no  high-wrought  spirit  of  commercial 
adventure,  no  love  of  gold,  no  mixture  of  purpose  warlike  or 
hostile  to  any  human  being.  Like  the  dove  from  the  ark,  she 
had  put  forth  only  to  find  rest.  Solemn  supplications  on  the 
shore  of  the  sea  in  Holland  had  invoked  for  her,  at  her  depar- 
ture, the  blessings  of  Providence.  The  stars  which  guided  her 
were  the  unobscured  constellations  of  civil  and  religious  liberty. 
Her  deck  was  the  altar  of  the  living  God.  Fervent  prayers  on 
bended  knees  mingled,  morning  and  evening,  with  the  voices 
of  ocean  and  the  sighing  of  the  wind  in  her  shrouds.  Every 
prosperous  breeze  which,  gently  swelling  her  sails,  helped  the 
Pilgrims  onward  in  their  course,  awoke  new  anthems  of  praise ; 
and  when  the  elements  were  wrought  into  fury,  neither  the  tem- 
pest, tossing  their  fragile  bark  like  a  feather,  nor  the  darkness  and 
howling  of  the  midnight  storm,  ever  disturbed  in  man  or  woman 
the  firm  and  settled  purpose  of  their  souls,  to  undergo  all  and  to  do 
all  that  the  meekest  patience,  the  boldest  resolution,  and  the  highest 
trust  in  God,  could  enable  human  beings  to  suffer  or  to  perform. 

Some  differences  may,  doubtless,  be  traced  at  this  day  between 
the  descendants  of  the  early  colonists  of  Virginia  and  those  of 
New  England,  owing  to  the  different  influences  and  different  cir- 
cumstances under  which  the  respective  settlements  were  made, 
but  only  enough  to  create  a  pleasing  variety  in  the  midst  of  a 
general  family  resemblance. 

"  Facies  non  omnibus  una, 
Nee  diversa  tamen;  qualis  decet  sororum."1 

But  the  habits,  sentiments,  and  objects  of  both  soon  became 
modified  by  locaJ  Causes,  growing  out  of  their  condition  in  the 

1  "  The  features  are  not  the  same  in  all,  nor  yet  very  different :  they  are 
such  as  those  of  sisters  ought  to  be."  —  QVID. 


58  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

New  World ;  and  as  this  condition  was  essentially  alike  in  both, 
and  as  both  at  once  adopted  the  same  general  rules  and  prin- 
ciples of  English  jurisprudence,  and  became  accustomed  to  the 
authority  of  representative  bodies,  these  differences  gradually 
diminished.  They  disappeared  by  the  progress  of  time  and  the 
influence  of  intercourse.  The  necessity  of  some  degree  of  union 
and  cooperation  to  defend  themselves  against  the  savage  tribes, 
tended  to  excite  in  them  mutual  respect  and  regard.  They 
fought  together  in  the  wars  against  France.1  The  great  and 
common  cause  of  the  Revolution  bound  them  to  one  another  by 
new  links  of  brotherhood ;  and  at  length  the  present  constitution 
of  government  united  them,  happily  and  gloriously,  to  form  the 
great  republic  of  the  world,  and  bound  up  their  interests  and  for- 
tunes, till  the  whole  earth  sees  that  there  is  now  for  them,  in  pres- 
ent possession  as  well  as  in  future  hope,  but  "  One  Country,  One 
Constitution,  and  One  Destiny." 

The  colonization  of  the  tropical  region,  and  the  whole  of  the 
southern  parts  of  the  continent,  by  Spain  and  Portugal,  was  con- 
ducted on  other  principles,  under  the  influence  of  other  motives, 
and  followed  by  far  different  consequences.  From  the  time  of 
its  discovery,  the  Spanish  Government  pushed  forward  its  settle- 
ments in  America,  not  only  with  vigor,  but  with  eagerness ;  so 
that,  long  before  the  first  permanent  English  settlement  had  been 
accomplished  in  what  is  now  the  United  States,  Spain  had  con- 
quered Mexico,  Peru,  and  Chile,  and  stretched  her  power  over 
nearly  all  the  territory  she  ever  acquired  on  this  continent.  The 
rapidity  of  these  conquests  is  to  be  ascribed,  in  a  great  degree,  to 
the  eagerness,  not  to  say  the  rapacity,  of  those  numerous  bands 
of  adventurers  who  were  stimulated  by  individual  interests  and 
private  hopes  to  subdue  immense  regions,  and  take  possession  of 
them  in  the  name  of  the  Crown  of  Spain.  The  mines  of  gold 
and  silver  were  the  incitements  to  these  efforts;  and  accordingly 

1  Known  in  American  history  as  King  William's  War  (1689-97),  Queen 
Anne's  War  (1702-13),  King  George's  War  (1744-48),  and  the  French  and 
Indian  War  (1754-63). 


SECOND  BUNKER  HILL  ADDRESS.  59 

settlements  were  generally  made,  and  Spanish  authority  estab- 
lished, immediately  on  the  subjugation  of  territory,  that  the  native 
population  might  be  set  to  work  by  their  new  Spanish  masters  in 
the  mines.  From  these  facts,  the  love  of  gold — gold  not  pro- 
duced by  industry,  nor  accumulated  by  commerce,  but  gold  dug 
from  its  native  bed  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  and  that  earth 
ravished  from  its  rightful  possessors  by  every  possible  degree  of 
enormity,  cruelty,  and  crime  —  was  long  the  governing  passion  in 
Spanish  wars  and  Spanish  settlements  in  America.  Even  Colum- 
bus himself  did  not  wholly  escape  the  influence  of  this  base  motive. 
In  his  early  voyages  we  find  him  passing  from  island  to  island, 
inquiring  everywhere  for  gold,  as  if  God  had  opened  the  New 
World  to  the  knowledge  of  the  Old,  only  to  gratify  a  passion 
equally  senseless  and  sordid,  and  to  offer  up  millions  of  an  un- 
offending race  of  men  to  the  destruction  of  the  sword,  sharpened 
both  by  cruelty  and  rapacity.  And  yet  Columbus  was  far  above 
his  age  and  country;  enthusiastic,  indeed,  but  sober,  religious, 
and  magnanimous ;  born  to  great  things,  and  capable  of  high 
sentiments,  as  his  noble  discourse  before  Ferdinand  and  Isabella, 
as  well  as  the  whole  history  of  his  life,  shows.  Probably  he  sac- 
rificed much  to  the  known  sentiments  of  others,  and  addressed 
to  his  followers  motives  likely  to  influence  them.  At  the  same 
time,  it  is  evident  that  he  himself  looked  upon  the  world  which 
he  discovered  as  a  world  of  wealth  all  ready  to  be  seized  and 
enjoyed. 

The  conquerors  and  the  European  settlers  of  Spanish  America 
were  mainly  military  commanders  and  common  soldiers.  The 
monarchy  of  Spain  was  not  transferred  to  this  hemisphere  ;  but  it 
acted  in  it,  as  it  acted  at  home,  through  its  ordinary  means  and 
its  true  representative,  military  force.  The  robbery  and  destruc- 
tion of  the  native  race  was  the  achievement  of  standing  armies, 
in  the  right  of  the  King  and  by  his  authority ;  fighting  in  his  name, 
for  the  aggrandizement  of  his  power  and  the  extension  of  his 
prerogatives,  with  military  ideas  under  arbitrary  maxims, — a 
portion  of  that  dreadful  instrumentality  by  which  a  perfect  des- 


60  DANIEL   WEBSTER. 

potism  governs  a  people.     As  there  was  no  liberty  in  Spain,  how 
could  liberty  be  transmitted  to  Spanish  colonies  ? 

The  colonists  of  English  America  were  of  the  people,  and  a 
people  already  free.  They  were  of  the  middle,  industrious,  and 
already  prosperous  class,  the  inhabitants  of  commercial  aric1 
manufacturing  cities,  among  whom  liberty  first  revived  and  re 
spired  after  a  sleep  of  a  thousand  years  in  the  bosom  of  the  Darl: 
Ages.  Spain  descended  on  the  New  World  in  the  armed  and 
terrible  image  of  her  monarchy  and  her  soldiery ;  England  ap- 
proached it  in  the  winning  and  popular  garb  of  personal  rights, 
public  protection,  and  civil  freedom.  England  transplanted  lib- 
erty to  America  ;  Spain  transplanted  power.  England,  through 
the  agency  of  private  companies  and  the  efforts  of  individuals, 
colonized  this  part  of  North  America  by  industrious  individuals, 
making  their  own  way  in  the  wilderness,  defending  themselves 
against  the  savages,  recognizing  their  right  to  the  soil,  and  with 
a  general  honest  purpose  of  introducing  knowledge  as  well  as 
Christianity  among  them.  Spain  stooped  on  South  America  like 
a  vulture  on  its  prey.  Everything  was  force.  Territories  were 
acquired  by  fire  and  sword.  Cities  were  destroyed  by  fire  and 
sword.  Hundreds  of  thousands  of  human  beings  fell  by  fire  and 
sword.  Even  conversion  to  Christianity  was  attempted  by  fire 
and  sword. 

Behold,  then,  fellow  citizens,  the  difference  resulting  from  the 
operation  of  the  two  principles  !  Here,  to-day,  on  the  summit 
of  Bunker  Hill,  and  at  the  foot  of  this  monument,  behold  the 
difference  !  I  would  that  the  fifty  thousand  voices  present  could 
proclaim  it  with  a  shout  which  should  be  heard  over  the  globe. 
Our  inheritance  was  of  liberty,  secured  and  regulated  by  law,  and 
enlightened  by  religion  and  knowledge  ;  that  of  South  America  was 
of  power,  —  stern,  unrelenting,  tyrannical,  military  power.  And 
now  look  to  the  consequences  of  the  two  principles  on  the  general 
and  aggregate  happiness  of  the  human  race.  Behold  the  results 
in  all  the  regions  conquered  by  Cortes  and  Pizarro,  and  the  con- 
trasted results  here.  I  suppose  the  territory  of  the  United  States 


SECOND  BUNKER  HILL  ADDRESS.  61 

may  amount  to  one  eighth,  or  one  tenth,  of  that  colonized  by 
Spain  on  this  continent ;  and  yet.  in  all  that  vast  region  there  are 
but  between  one  and  two  millions  of  people  of  European  color 
and  European  blood,  while  in  the  United  States  there  are  four- 
teen millions  who  rejoice  in  their  descent  from  the  people  of  the 
more  northern  part  of  Europe. 

But  we  may  follow  the  difference  in  the  original  principle  of 
colonization,  and  in  its  character  and  objects,  still  further.  We 
must  look  to  moral  and  intellectual  results;  we  must  consider 
consequences,  not  only  as  they  show  themselves  in  hastening  or 
retarding  the  increase  of  population  and  the  supply  of  physical 
wants,  but  in  their  civilization,  improvement,  and  happiness.  We 
must  inquire  what  progress  has  been  made  in  the  true  science  of 
liberty,  in  the  knowledge  of  the  great  principles  of  self-govern- 
ment, and  in  the  progress  of  man  as  a  social,  moral,  and  religious 
being. 

I  would  not  willingly  say  anything  on  this  occasion  discour- 
teous to  the  new  governments  founded  on  the  demolition  of  the 
power  of  the  Spanish  monarchy.  They  are  yet  on  their  trial, 
and  I  hope  for  a  favorable  result.  But  truth,  sacred  truth,  and 
fidelity  to  the  cause  of  civil  liberty,  compel  me  to  say,  that 
hitherto  they  have  discovered  quite  too  much  of  the  spirit  of 
that  monarchy  from  which  they  separated  themselves.  Quite 
too  frequent  resort  is  made  to  military  force ;  and  quite  too 
much  of  the  substance  of  the  people  is  consumed  in  maintaining 
armies,  not  for  defense  against  foreign  aggression,  but  for  enfor- 
cing obedience  to  domestic  authority.  Standing  armies  are  the 
oppressive  instruments  for  governing  the  people  in  the  hands  of 
hereditary  and  arbitrary  monarchs.  A  military  republic,  a  gov- 
ernment founded  on  mock  elections  and  supported  only  by  the 
sword,  is  a  movement  indeed,  but  a  retrograde  and  disastrous 
movement,  from  the  regular  and  old-fashioned  monarchical  sys- 
tems. If  men  would  enjoy  the  blessings  of  republican  govern- 
ment, they  must  govern  themselves  by  reason,  by  mutual  counsel 
and  consultation,  by  a  sense  and  feeling  of  general  interest,  and 


62  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

by  the  acquiescence  of  the  minority  in  the  will  of  the  majority, 
properly  expressed ;  and,  above  all,  the  military  must  be  kept, 
according  to  the  language  of  our  Bill  of  Rights,  in  strict  subor- 
dination to  the  civil  authority.  Wherever  this  lesson  is  not  both 
learned  and  practiced,  there  can  be  no  political  freedom.  Ab- 
surd, preposterous  is  it,  a  scoff  and  a  satire  on  free  forms  of  con- 
stitutional liberty,  for  frames  of  government  to  be  prescribed  by 
military  leaders,  and  the  right  of  suffrage  to  be  exercised  at  the 
point  of  the  sword. 

Making  all  allowance  for  situation  and  climate,  it  cannot  be 
doubted  by  intelligent  minds  that  the  difference  now  existing 
between  North  and  South  America  is  justly  attributable,  in  a 
great  degree,  to  political  institutions  in  the  Old  World  and  in  the 
New.  And  how  broad  that  difference  is  !  Suppose  an  assembly, 
in  one  of  the  valleys  or  on  the  side  of  one  of  the  mountains  of 
the  southern  half  of  the  hemisphere,  to  be  held  this  day  in  the 
neighborhood  of  a  large  city  —  what  would  be  the  scene  pre- 
sented ?  Yonder  is  a  volcano,  flaming  and  smoking,  but  shed- 
ding no  light,  moral  or  intellectual.  At  its  foot  is  the  mine, 
sometimes  yielding,  perhaps,  large  gains  to  capital,  but  in  which 
labor  is  destined  to  eternal  and  unrequited  toil,  and  followed  only 
by  penury  and  beggary.  The  city  is  filled  with  armed  men  ;  not 
a  free  people,  armed  and  coming  forth  voluntarily  to  rejoice  in  a 
public  festivity,  but  hireling  troops,  supported  by  forced  loans, 
excessive  impositions  on  commerce,  or  taxes  wrung  from  a  half- 
fed  and  a  half-clothed  population.  For  the  great  there  are  palaces 
covered  with  gold ;  for  the  poor  there  are  hovels  of  the  meanest 
sort.  There  is  an  ecclesiastical  hierarchy,  enjoying  the  wealth  of 
princes ;  but  there  are  no  means  of  education  for  the  people.  Do 
public  improvements  favor  intercourse  between  place  and  place? 
So  far  from  this,  the  traveler  cannot  pass  from  town  to  town 
without  danger,  every  mile,  of  robbery  and  assassination.  I 
would  not  overcharge  or  exaggerate  this  picture ;  but  its  princi- 
pal features  are  all  too  truly  sketched. 

And  how  does  it  contrast  with  the  scene  now  actually  before 


SECOND   BUNKER   HILL  ADDRESS.  63 

us  ?  Look  round  upon  these  fields ;  they  are  verdant  and  beau- 
tiful, well  cultivated,  and  at  this  moment  loaded  with  the  riches 
of  the  early  harvest.  The  hands  which  till  them  are  those  of  the 
free  owners  of  the  soil,  enjoying  equal  rights,  and  protected  by 
law  from  oppression  and  tyranny.  Look  to  the  thousand  vessels 
in  our  sight,  filling  the  harbor,  or  covering  the  neighboring  sea. 
They  are  the  vehicles  of  a  profitable  commerce,  carried  on  by 
men  who  know  that  the  profits  of  their  hardy  enterprise,  when 
they  make  them,  are  their  own  ;  and  this  commerce  is  encouraged 
and  regulated  by  wise  laws,  and  defended,  when  need  be,  by  the 
valor  and  patriotism  of  the  country.  Look  to  that  fair  city,  the 
abode  of  so  much  diffused  wealth,  so  much  general  happiness 
and  comfort,  so  much  personal  independence,  and  so  much  gen- 
eral knowledge,  and  not  undistinguished,  I  may  be  permitted  to 
add,  for  hospitality  and  social  refinement.  She  fears  no  forced 
contributions,  no  siege  or  sacking  from  military  leaders  of  rival 
factions.  The  hundred  temples  in  which  her  citizens  worship 
God  are  in  no  danger  of  sacrilege.  The  regular  administration 
of  the  laws  encounters  no  obstacle.  The  long  processions  of 
children  and  youth  which  you  see  this  day  issuing  by  thousands 
from  her  free  schools,  prove  the  care  and  anxiety  with  which  a 
popular  government  provides  for  the  education  and  morals  of 
the  people.  Everywhere  there  is  order;  everywhere  there  is 
security.  Everywhere  the  law  reaches  to  the  highest,  and  reaches 
to  the  lowest,  to  protect  all  in  their  rights,  and  to  restrain  all  from 
wrong ;  and  over  all  hovers  Liberty,  —  that  Liberty  for  which  our 
fathers  fought  and  fell  on  this  very  spot,  —  with  her  eye  ever 
watchful  and  her  eagle  wing  ever  wide  outspread. 

The  colonies  of  Spain,  from  their  origin  to  their  end,  were  sub- 
ject to  the  sovereign  authority  of  the  mother  country.  Their 
government,  as  well  as  their  commerce,  was  a  strict  home  monop- 
oly. If  we  add  to  this  the  established  usage  of  filling  important 
posts  in  the  administration  of  the  colonies  exclusively  by  natives 
of  Old  Spain,  thus  cutting  off  forever  all  hopes  of  honorable  pre- 
ferment from  every  man  born  in  the  Western  hemisphere,  causes 


64  DANIEL   WEBSTER. 

enough  rise  up  before  us  at  once  to  account  fully  for  the  subse- 
quent history  and  character  of  these  provinces.  The  viceroys 
and  provincial  governors  of  Spain  were  never  at  home  in  their 
governments  in  America.  They  did  not  feel  that  they  were  of 
the  people  whom  they  governed.  Their  official  character  and 
employment  have  a  good  deal  of  resemblance  to  those  of  the 
proconsuls  of  Rome  in  Asia,  Sicily,  and  Gaul,  but  obviously  no 
resemblance  to  those  of  Carver  and  Winthrop,  and  very  little  to 
those  of  the  governors  of  Virginia  after  that  Colony  had  estab- 
lished a  popular  House  of  Burgesses. 

The  English  colonists  in  America,  generally  speaking,  were 
men  who  were  seeking  new  homes  in  a  new  world.  They  brought 
with  them  their  families  and  all  that  was  most  dear  to  them.  This 
was  especially  the  case  with  the  colonists  of  Plymouth  and  Mas- 
sachusetts. Many  of  them  were  educated  men,  and  all  possessed 
their  full  share,  according  to  their  social  condition,  of  the  knowl 
edge  and  attainments  of  that  age.  The  distinctive  characteristic 
of  their  settlement  is  the  introduction  of  the  civilization  of  Europe 
into  a  wilderness,  without  bringing  with  it  the  political  institutions 
of  Europe.  The  arts,  sciences,  and  literature  of  England  came 
over  with  the  settlers.  That  great  portion  of  the  common  law 
which  regulates  the  social  and  personal  relations  and  conduct  of 
men  came  also.  The  jury  came ;  the  habeas  corpus  came ;  the 
testamentary  power  came ;  and  the  law  of  inheritance  and  de- 
scent came  also,  except  that  part  of  it  which  recognizes  the  rights 
of  primogeniture,1  which  either  did  not  come  at  all,  or  soon  gave 
way  to  the  rule  of  equal  partition  of  estates  among  children.  But 
the  monarchy  did  not  come,  nor  the  aristocracy,  nor  the  church, 
as  an  estate  of  the  realm.  Political  institutions  were  to  be 
framed  anew,  such  as  should  be  adapted  to  the  state  of  things. 
But  it  could  not  be  doubtful  what  should  be  the  nature  and  char- 
acter of  these  institutions.  A  general  social  equality  prevailed 
among  the  settlers,  and  an  equality  of  political  rights  seemed  the 

1  "Rights  of  primogeniture,"  i.e.,  the  law  providing  that  the  eldest  son 
should  inherit  the  entire  estate  of  his  father. 


SECOND  BUNKER  HILL  ADDRESS.  65 

natural,  if  not  the  necessary  consequence.  After  forty  years  of 
revolution,  violence,  and  war,  the  people  of  France  have  placed 
at  the  head  of  the  fundamental  instrument  of  their  government, 
as  the  great  boon  obtained  by  all  their  sufferings  and  sacrifices, 
the  declaration  that  all  Frenchmen  are  equal  before  the  law. 
What  France  has  reached  only  by  the  expenditure  of  so  much 
blood  and  treasure,  and  the  perpetration  of  so  much  crime,  the 
English  colonists  obtained  by  simply  changing  their  place,  carry- 
ing with  them  the  intellectual  and  moral  culture  of  Europe,  and 
the  personal  and  social  relations  to  which  they  were  accustomed, 
but  leaving  behind  their  political  institutions.  It  has  been  said 
with  much  vivacity,  that  the  felicity  of  the  American  colonists 
consisted  in  their  escape  from  the  past.  This  is  true  so  far  as 
respects  political  establishments,  but  no  farther.  They  brought 
with  them  a  full  portion  of  all  the  riches  of  the  past,  in  science, 
in  art,  in  morals,  religion,  and  literature.  The  Bible  came  with 
them.  And  it  is  not  to  be  doubted,  that  to  the  free  and  univer- 
sal reading  of  the  Bible,  in  that  age,  men  were  much  indebted 
for  right  views  of  civil  liberty.  The  Bible  is  a  book  of  faith,  and 
a  book  of  doctrine,  and  a  book  of  morals,  and  a  book  of  reli- 
gion, of  especial  revelation  from  God ;  but  it  is  also  a  book  which 
teaches  man  his  own  individual  responsibility,  his  own  dignity, 
and  his  equality  with  his  fellow  man. 

Bacon  and  Locke,  and  Shakespeare  and  Milton,  also  came 
with  the  colonists.  It  was  the  object  of  the  first  settlers  to  form 
new  political  systems ;  but  all  that  belonged  to  cultivated  man,  to 
family,  to  neighborhood,  to  social  relations,  accompanied  them. 
In  the  Doric l  phrase  of  one  of  our  own  historians,  "  They  came  to 
settle  on  bare  creation ;  "  but  their  settlement  in  the  wilderness, 
nevertheless,  was  not  a  lodgment  of  nomadic  tribes,  a  mere  rest- 
ing place  of  roaming  savages.  It  was  the  beginning  of  a  per- 
manent community,  the  fixed  residence  of  cultivated  men.  Not 
only  was  English  literature  read,  but  English,  good  English,  was 
spoken  and  written,  before  the  ax  had  made  way  to  let  in  the 

1  Plain,  unadorned. 
5 


66  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

sun  upon  the  habitations  and  fields  of  Plymouth  and  Massachu- 
setts. And,  whatever  may  be  said  to  the  contrary,  a  correct  use 
of  the  English  language  is,  at  this  day,  more  general  throughout 
the  United  States  than  it  is  throughout  England  herself. 

But  another  grand  characteristic  is,  that  in  the  English  Colonies 
political  affairs  were  left  to  be  managed  by  the  colonists  them- 
selves. This  is  another  fact  wholly  distinguishing  them  in  char- 
acter, as  it  has  distinguished  them  in  fortune,  from  the  colonists 
of  Spain.  Here  lies  the  foundation  of  that  experience  in  self- 
government  which  has  preserved  order  and  security  and  regu- 
larity amidst  the  play  of  popular  institutions.  Home  govern- 
ment was  the  secret  of  the  prosperity  of  the  North- American 
settlements.  The  more  distinguished  of  the  New-England  colo- 
nists, with  a  most  remarkable  sagacity  and  a  long-sighted  reach 
into  futurity,  refused  to  come  to  America  unless  they  could  bring 
with  them  charters  providing  for  the  administration  of  their 
affairs  in  this  country.  They  saw  from  the  first  the  evils  of 
being  governed  in  the  New  World  by  a  power  fixed  in  the  Old. 
Acknowledging  the  general  superiority  of  the  Crown,  they  still 
insisted  on  the  right  of  passing  local  laws,  and  of  local  adminis- 
tration. And  history  teaches  us  the  justice  and  the  value  of  this 
determination  in  the  example  of  Virginia.  The  early  attempts 
to  settle  that  Colony  failed,  sometimes  with  the  most  melancholy 
and  fatal  consequences,  from  want  of  knowledge,  care,  and  atten- 
tion on  the  part  of  those  who  had  the  charge  of  their  affairs  in 
England ;  and  it  was  only  after  the  issuing  of  the  third  charter 
that  its  prosperity  fairly  commenced.  The  cause  was,  that  by 
that  third  charter  the  people  of  Virginia,  for  by  this  time  they 
deserved  to  be  so  called,  were  allowed  to  constitute  and  establish 
the  first  popular  representative  assembly  which  ever  convened 
on  this  continent, — the  Virginia  House  of  Burgesses.1 

The  great  elements,  then,  of  the  American  system  of  govern- 
ment, originally  introduced  by  the  colonists,  and  which  were  early 

1  The  first  House  of  Burgesses  in  Virginia  was  convened  by  Gov.  Yeard- 
ley  in  1619,  thirteen  years  after  the  landing  at  Jamestown. 


SECOND  BUNKER  HILL  ADDRESS.  67 

in  operation,  and  ready  to  be  developed  more  and  more  as  the 
progress  of  events  should  justify  or  demand,  were :  — 

Escape  from  the  existing  political  systems  of  Europe,  includ- 
ing its  religious  hierarchies,1  but  the  continued  possession  and 
enjoyment  of  its  science  and  arts,  its  literature  and  its  manners ; 

Home  government,  or  the  power  of  making  in  the  Colony  the 
municipal  laws  which  were  to  govern  it ; 

Equality  of  rights ; 

Representative  assemblies,  or  forms  of  government  founded  on 
popular  elections. 

Few  topics  are  more  inviting,  or  more  fit  for  philosophical 
discussion,  than  the  effect  on  the  happiness  of  mankind  of  in- 
stitutions founded  upon  these  principles ;  or,  in  other  words,  the 
influence  of  the  New  World  upon  the  Old. 

Her  obligations  to  Europe  for  science  and  art,  laws,  literature, 
and  manners,  America  acknowledges  as  she  ought,  with  respect 
and  gratitude.  The  people  of  the  United  States,  descendants  of 
the  English  stock,  grateful  for  the  treasures  of  knowledge  derived 
from  their  English  ancestors,  admit  also,  with  thanks  and  filial 
regard,  that  among  those  ancestors,  under  the  culture  of  Hamp- 
den  and  Sidney  2  and  other  assiduous  friends,  that  seed  of  popu- 
lar liberty  first  germinated,  which  on  our  soil  has  shot  up  to  its 
full  height,  until  its  branches  overshadow  all  the  land. 

But  America  has  not  failed  to  make  returns.  If.  she  has  not 
wholly  canceled  the  obligation,  or  equaled  it  by  others  of  like 
weight,  she  has  at  least  made  respectable  advances  towards  re- 
paying the  debt.  And  she  admits  that,  standing  in  the  midst 
of  civilized  nations  and  in  a  civilized  age,  a  nation  among  na- 
tions, there  is  a  high  part  which  she  is  expected  to  act  for  the 
general  advancement  of  human  interests  and  human  welfare. 

1  Governments  by  the  priesthood. 

2  John  Hampden  (1594-1643)  and  Algernon  Sidney  (1622-83),  English 
patriots  distinguished  for  their  fearless  advocacy  of  the  rights  of  the  people 
in  opposition  to  kingly  tyranny. 


68  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

American  mines  have  filled  the  mints  of  Europe  with  the  pre- 
cious metals.  The  productions  of  the  American  soil  and  climate 
have  poured  out  their  abundance  of  luxuries  for  the  tables  of  the 
rich  and  of  necessaries  for  the  sustenance  of  the  poor.  Birds 
and  animals  of  beauty  and  value  have  been  added  to  the  Euro- 
pean stocks ;  and  transplantations  from  the  unequaled  riches  of 
our  forests  have  mingled  themselves  profusely  with  the  elms  and 
ashes  and  druidical  oaks  of  England. 

America  has  made  contributions  to  Europe  far  more  impor- 
tant. Who  can  estimate  the  amount,  or  the  value,  of  the  aug- 
mentation of  the  commerce  of  the  world  that  has  resulted  from 
America?  Who  can  imagine  to  himself  what  would  now  be  the 
shock  to  the  Eastern  Continent,  if  the  Atlantic  were  no  longer 
traversable,  or  if  there  were  no  longer  American  productions  or 
American  markets  ? 

But  America  exercises  influences,  or  holds  out  examples,  for 
the  consideration  of  the  Old  World,  of  a  much  higher,  because 
they  are  of  a  moral  and  political  character. 

America  has  furnished  to  Europe  proof  of  the  fact  that  popu- 
lar institutions,  founded  on  equality  and  the  principle  of  repre- 
sentation, are  capable  of  maintaining  governments  able  to  secure 
the  rights  of  person,  property,  and  reputation. 

America  has  proved  that  it  is  practicable  to  elevate  the  mass 
of  mankind,  —  that  portion  which  in  Europe  is  called  the  laboring, 
or  lower  class,  —  to  raise  them  to  self-respect,  to  make  them  com- 
petent to  act  a  part  in  the  great  right  and  great  duty  of  self-gov- 
ernment ;  and  she  has  proved  that  this  may  be  done  by  education 
and  the  diffusion  of  knowledge.  She  holds  out  an  example,  a 
thousand  times  more  encouraging  than  ever  was  presented  be- 
fore, to  those  nine  tenths  of  the  human  race  who  are  born  with- 
out hereditary  fortune  or  hereditary  rank. 

America  has  furnished  to  the  world  the  character  of  Washing- 
ton. And,  if  our  American  institutions  had  done  nothing  else, 
that  alone  would  have  entitled  them  to  the  respect  of  mankind. 

Washington  !      "  First  in  war,  first  in  peace,  and  first  in  the 


SECOND  BUNKER  HILL  ADDRESS.  69 

hearts  of  his  countrymen  !  "  1  Washington  is  all  our  own  !  The 
enthusiastic  veneration  and  regard  in  which  the  people  of  the 
United  States  hold  him  prove  them  to  be  worthy  of  such  a 
countryman ;  while  his  reputation  abroad  reflects  the  highest 
honor  on  his  country.  I  would  cheerfully  put  the  question  to- 
day to  the  intelligence  of  Europe  and  the  world,  What  character 
of  the  century,  upon  the  whole,  stands  out  in  the  relief  of  history, 
most  pure,  most  respectable,  most  sublime  ?  and  I  doubt  not, 
that,  by  a  suffrage  approaching  to  unanimity,  the  answer  would 
be,  Washington  ! 

The  structure  now  standing  before  us,  by  its  uprightness,  its 
solidity,  its  durability,  is  no  unfit  emblem  of  his  character.  His 
public  virtues  and  public  principles  were  as  firm  as  the  earth  on 
which  it  stands ;  his  personal  motives,  as  pure  as  the  serene 
heaven  in  which  its  summit  is  lost.  But,  indeed,  though  a  fit, 
it  is  an  inadequate  emblem.  Towering  high  above  the  column 
which  our  hands  have  builded,  beheld,  not  by  the  inhabitants  of 
a  single  city  or  a  single  State,  but  by  all  the  families  of  man, 
ascends  the  colossal  grandeur  of  the  character  and  life  of  Wash- 
ington. In  all  the  constituents  of  the  one,  in  all  the  acts  of  the 
other,  in  all  its  titles  to  immortal  love,  admiration,  and  renown, 
it  is  an  American  production.  It  is  the  embodiment  and  vindi- 
cation of  our  Transatlantic  liberty.  Born  upon  our  soil,  of  par- 
ents also  born  upon  it ;  never  for  a  moment  having  had  sight  of 
the  Old  World ;  instructed,  according  to  the  modes  of  his  time, 
only  in  the  spare,  plain,  but  wholesome  elementary  knowledge 
which  our  institutions  provide  for  the  children  of  the  people ; 
growing  up  beneath  and  penetrated  by  the  genuine  influences  of 
American  society ;  living,  from  infancy  to  manhood  and  age, 
amidst  our  expanding  but  not  luxurious  civilization  ;  partaking 
in  our  great  destiny  of  labor,  our  long  contest  with  unreclaimed 
nature  and  uncivilized  man,  our  agony  of  glory,  the  war  of  Inde- 
pendence, our  great  victory  of  peace,  the  formation  of  the  Union 

1  These  words  were  first  used  by  Henry  Lee  in  his  oration  on  the  death 

of  Washington. 


70  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

and  the  establishment  of  the  Constitution, — he  is  all,  all  our 
own  !      Washington  is  ours.     That  crowded  and  glorious  life, — 

"  Where  multitudes  of  virtues  passed  along, 
Each  pressing  foremost,  in  the  mighty  throng 
Ambitious  to  be  seen,  then  making  room 
For  greater  multitudes  that  were  to  come,"  — 

that  life  was  the  life  of  an  American  citizen. 

I  claim  him  for  America.  In  all  the  perils,  in  every  darkened 
moment  of  the  state,  in  the  midst  of  the  reproaches  of  enemies 
and  the  misgivings  of  friends,  I  turn  to  that  transcendent  name 
for  courage  and  for  consolation.  To  him  who  denies  or  doubts 
whether  our  fervid  liberty  can  be  combined  with  law,  with  order, 
with  the  security  of  property,  with  the  pursuits  and  advancement 
of  happiness ;  to  him  who  denies  that  our  forms  of  government 
are  capable  of  producing  exaltation  of  soul  and  the  passion  of 
true  glory ;  to  him  who  denies  that  we  have  contributed  anything 
to  the  stock  of  great  lessons  and  great  examples,  —  to  all  these  I 
reply  by  pointing  to  Washington. 

And  now,  friends  and  fellow  citizens,  it  is  time  to  bring  this 
discourse  to  a  close. 

We  have  indulged  in  gratifying  recollections  of  the  past,  in  the 
prosperity  and  pleasures  of  the  present,  and  in  high  hopes  for  the 
future.  But  let  us  remember  that  we  have  duties  and  obligations 
to  perform  corresponding  to  the  blessings  which  we  enjoy.  Lei 
us  remember  the  trust,  the  sacred  trust,  attaching  to  the  rich  in 
heritance  which  we  have  received  from  our  fathers.  Let  us  fee 
our  personal  responsibility,  to  the  full  extent  of  our  power  and 
influence,  for  the  preservation  of  the  principles  of  civil  and  reli 
gious  liberty.  And  let  us  remember  that  it  is  only  religion  and 
morals  and  knowledge,  that  can  make  men  respectable1  and 
happy  under  any  form  of  government.  Let  us  hold  fast  the 
great  truth,  that  communities  are  responsible,  as  well  as  individ- 

1  See  note,  p.  50. 


SECOND  BUNKER  HILL  ADDRESS.  71 

uals ;  that  no  government  is  respectable 1  which  is  not  just ;  that 
without  unspotted  purity  of  public  faith,  without  sacred  public 
principle,  fidelity,  and  honor,  no  mere  forms  of  government,  no 
machinery  of  laws,  can  give  dignity  to  political  society.  In  our 
day  and  generation  let  us  seek  to  raise  and  improve  the  moral 
sentiment,  so  that  we  may  look,  not  for  a  degraded,  but  for  an 
elevated  and  improved  future.  And  when  both  we  and  our 
children  shall  have  been  consigned  to  the  house  appointed  for 
all  living,  may  love  of  country  and  pride  of  country  glow  with 
equal  fervor  among  those  to  whom  our  names  and  our  blood 
shall  have  descended  !  And  then,  when  honored  and  decrepit 
age  shall  lean  against  the  base  of  this  monument,  and  troops  of 
ingenuous  youth  shall  be  gathered  round  it,  and  when  the  one 
shall  speak  to  the  other  of  its  objects,  the  purposes  of  its  con- 
struction, and  the  great  and  glorious  events  with  which  it  is  con- 
nected, there  shall  rise  from  every  youthful  breast  the  ejaculation, 
"Thank  God,  I  —  I  also  —  AM  AN  AMERICAN  !" 

1  See  note,  p.  50. 


THE   CHARACTER   OF  WASHINGTON. 

A    SPEECH    DELIVERED    AT    A    PUBLIC    DINNER    IN    THE    CITY    OF 

WASHINGTON,    ON    THE    22D    OF    FEBRUARY,    1832,    THE 

CENTENNIAL    ANNIVERSARY    OF    WASHINGTON'S 

BIRTHDAY. 


1RISE,  gentlemen,  to  propose  to  you  the  name  of  that  great 
man  in  commemoration  of  whose  birth,  and  in  honor  of 
whose  character  and  services,  we  are  here  assembled. 

I  am  sure  that  I  express  a  sentiment  common  to  every  one 
present,  when  I  say  that  there  is  something  more  than  ordinarily 
solemn  and  affecting  in  this  occasion. 

We  are  met  to  testify  our  regard  for  him  whose  name  is  inti- 
mately blended  with  whatever  belongs  most  essentially  to  the 
prosperity,  the  liberty,  the  free  institutions,  and  the  renown  of  our 
country.  That  name  was  of  power  to  rally  a  nation  in  the  hour 
of  thick-thronging  public  disasters  and  calamities ;  that  name 
shone,  amid  the  storm  of  war,  a  beacon  light,  to  cheer  and  guide 
the  country's  friends ;  it  flamed,  too,  like  a  meteor,  to  repel  her 
foes.  That  name,  in  the  days  of  peace,  was  a  loadstone,  attract- 
ing to  itself  a  whole  people's  confidence,  a  whole  people's  love, 
and  the  whole  world's  respect.  That  name,  descending  with  all 
time,  spreading  over  the  whole  earth,  and  uttered  in  all  the  lan- 
guages belonging  to  the  tribes  and  races  of  men,  will  forever  be 
pronounced  with  affectionate  gratitude  by  every  one  in  whose 
breast  there  shall  arise  an  aspiration  for  human  rights  and  human 
liberty. 

We  perform  this  grateful  duty,  gentlemen,  at  the  expiration  of 

72 


THE   CHARACTER   OF   WASHINGTON.  73 

a  hundred  years  from  his  birth,  near  the  place,  so  cherished  and 
beloved  by  him,  where  his  dust  now  reposes,  and  in  the  capital 
which  bears  his  own  immortal  name. 

All  experience  evinces  that  human  sentiments  are  strongly 
influenced  by  associations.  The  recurrence  of  anniversaries,  or 
of  longer  periods  of  time,  naturally  freshens  the  recollection,  and 
deepens  the  impression,  of  events  with  which  they  are  historical- 
ly connected.  Renowned  places,  also,  have  a  power  to  awaken 
feeling,  which  all  acknowledge.  No  American  ca"n  pass  by  the 
fields  of  Bunker  Hill,  Monmouth,  and  Camden,  as  if  they  were 
ordinary  spots  on  the  earth's  surface.  Whoever  visits  them  feels 
the  sentiment  of  love  of  country  kindling  anew,  as  if  the  spirit 
that  belonged  to  the  transactions  which  have  rendered  these 
places  distinguished,  still  hovered  round,  with  power  to  move  and 
excite  all  who  in  future  time  may  approach  them. 

But  neither  of  these  sources  of  emotion  equals  the  power  with 
which  great  moral  examples  affect  the  mind.  When  sublime 
virtues  cease  to  be  abstractions,  when  they  become  embodied  in 
human  character,  and  exemplified  in  human  conduct,  we  should 
be  false  to  our  own  nature  if  we  did  not  indulge  in  the  spontane- 
ous effusions  of  our  gratitude  and  our  admiration.  A  true  lover 
of  the  virtue  of  patriotism  delights  to  contemplate  its  purest 
models ;  and  that  love  of  country  may  be  well  suspected  which 
affects  to  soar  so  high  into  the  regions  of  sentiment  as  to  be  lost 
and  absorbed  in  the  abstract  feeling,  and  becomes  too  elevated 
or  too  refined  to  glow  with  fervor  in  the  commendation  or  the 
love  of  individual  benefactors.  All  this  i&  unnatural.  It  is  as  if 
one  should  be  so  enthusiastic  a  lover  of  poetry  as  to  care  noth- 
ing for  Homer  or  Milton ;  so  passionately  attached  to  eloquence 
as  to  be  indifferent  to  Tully l  and  Chatham ;  2  or  such  a  devotee 
to  the  arts,  in  such  an  ecstasy  with  the  elements  of  beauty,  pro- 
portion, and  expression,  as  to  regard  the  masterpieces  of  Raphael 3 

1  Marcus  Tullius  Cicero,  the  most  famous  Roman  orator  (106-43  B.C.). 

2  William  Pitt,  Earl  of  Chatham,  the  "  Great  Commoner  "  (1708-78). 

3  Raphael,  or  Raffaelle  Santi  d'Urbino,  Italian  painter  (1483-1520). 


74  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

and  Michael  Angelo  l  with  coldness  or  contempt.  We  may  be 
assured,  gentlemen,  that  he  who  really  loves  the  thing  itself, 
loves  its  finest  exhibitions.  A  true  friend  of  his  country  loves  her 
friends  and  benefactors,  and  thinks  it  no  degradation  to  commend 
and  commemorate  them.  The  voluntary  outpouring  of  the  public 
feeling  made  to-day,  from  the  North  to  the  South,  and  from  the 
East  to  the  West,  proves  this  sentiment  to  be  both  just  and  nat- 
ural. In  the  cities  and  in  the  villages,  in  the  public  temples  and 
in  the  family  circles,  among  all  ages  and  sexes,  gladdened  voices 
to-day  bespeak  grateful  hearts  and  a  freshened  recollection  of 
the  virtues  of  the  Father  of  his  Country.  And  it  will  be  so  in 
all  time  to  come,  so  long  as  public  virtue  is  itself  an  object  of 
regard.  The  ingenuous  youth  of  America  will  hold  up  to  them- 
selves the  bright  model  of  Washington's  example,  and  study  to 
be  what  they  behold ;  they  will  contemplate  his  character  till  all 
its  virtues  spread  out  and  display  themselves  to  their  delighted 
vision,  as  the  earliest  astronomers,  the  shepherds  on  the  plains 
of  Babylon,  gazed  at  the  stars  till  they  saw  them  form  into 
clusters  and  constellations,  overpowering  at  length  the  eyes  of 
the  beholders  with  the  united  blaze  of  a  thousand  lights. 

Gentlemen,  we  are  at  a  point  of  a  century  from  the  birth  of 
Washington  ;  and  what  a  century  it  has  been  !  During  its  course, 
the  human  mind  has  seemed  to  proceed  with  a  sort  of  geo- 
metric velocity,  accomplishing  for  human  intelligence  and  human 
freedom  more  than  had  been  done  in  fives  or  tens  of  centuries 
preceding.  Washington  stands  at  the  commencement  of  a  new 
era,  as  well  as  at  the  head  of  the  New  World.  A  century  from  the 
birth  of  Washington  has  changed  the  world.  The  country  of 
Washington  has  been  the  theater  on  which  a  great  part  of  that 
change  has  been  wrought,  and  Washington  himself  a  principal 
agent  by  which  it  has  been  accomplished.  His  age  and  his 
country  are  equally  full  of  wonders ;  and  of  both  he  is  the  chief. 

If  the  poetical  prediction  uttered  a  few  years  before  his  birth 
be  true ;  if  indeed  it  be  designed  by  Providence  that  the  grandest 

1  Michael  Angelo  Buonarroti,  Italian  painter  and  sculptor  (1485-1564). 


THE   CHARACTER   OF   WASHINGTON.  75 

exhibition  of  human  character  and  human  affairs  shall  be  made 
on  this  theater  of  the  Western  world ;  if  it  be  true  that 

"  The  four  first  acts  already  past, 
A  fifth  shall  close  the  drama  with  the  day: 
Time's  noblest  offspring  is  the  last,"i — 

how  could  this  imposing,  swelling,  final  scene  be  appropriately 
opened,  how  could  its  intense  interest  be  adequately  sustained,  but 
by  the  introduction  of  just  such  a  character  as  our  Washington  ? 
Washington  had  attained  his  manhood  when  that  spark  of  lib- 
erty was  struck  out  in  his  own  country  which  has  since  kindled 
into  a  flame,  and  shot  its  beams  over  the  earth.  In  the  flow  of 
a  century  from  his  birth,  the  world  has  changed  in  science,  in 
arts,  in  the  extent  of  commerce,  in  the  improvement  of  naviga- 
tion, and  in  all  that  relates  to  the  civilization  of  man.  But  it  is 
the  spirit  of  human  freedom,  the  new  elevation  of  individual 
man,  in  his  moral,  social,  and  political  character,  leading  the 
whole  long  train  of  other  improvements,  which  has  most  remark- 
ably distinguished  the  era.  Society,  in  this  century,  has  not  made 
its  progress,  like  Chinese  skill,  by  a  greater  acuteness  of  ingenuity 
in  trifles ;  it  has  not  merely  lashed  itself  to  an  increased  speed 
round  the  old  circles  of  thought  and  action ;  but  it  has  assumed 
a  new  character ;  it  has  raised  itself  from  beneath  governments  to 
a  participation  in  governments ;  it  has  mixed  moral  and  political 
objects  with  the  daily  pursuits  of  individual  men ;  and,  with  a 
freedom  and  strength  before  altogether  unknown,  it  has  applied 
to  these  objects  the  whole  power  of  the  human  understanding. 
It  has  been  the  era,  in  short,  when  the  social  principle  has  tri- 
umphed over  the  feudal  principle ;  when  society  has  maintained 
its  rights  against  military  power,  and  established,  on  foundations 
never  hereafter  to  be  shaken,  its  competency  to  govern  itself. 

1  From  a  poem  entitled  On  the  Prospect  of  Planting  Arts  and  Learn- 
ing in  America,  written  by  Bishop  Berkeley  in  1724.  The  first  line  of  the 
stanza  is, 

"  Westward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its  way." 


76  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

It  was  the  extraordinary  fortune  of  Washington,  that  having 
been  intrusted  in  Revolutionary  times  with  the  supreme  military 
command,  and  having  fulfilled  that  trust  with  equal  renown  for 
wisdom  and  for  valor,  he  should  be  placed  at  the  head  of  the 
first  government  in  which  an  attempt  was  to  be  made  on  a  large 
scale  to  rear  the  fabric  of  social  order  on  the  basis  of  a  written 
constitution  and  of  a  pure  representative  principle.  A  govern- 
ment was  to  be  established,  without  a  throne,  without  an  aristoc- 
racy, without  castes,  orders,  or  privileges ;  and  this  government, 
instead  of  being  a  democracy,  existing  and  acting  within  the 
walls  of  a  single  city,  was  to  be  extended  over  a  vast  country,  of 
different  climates,  interests,  and  habits,  and  of  various  commun- 
ions of  our  common  Christian  faith.  The  experiment  certainly 
was  entirely  new.  A  popular  government  of  this  extent,  it  was 
evident,  could  be  framed  only  by  carrying  into  full  effect  the 
principle  of  representation  or  of  delegated  power ;  and  the  world 
was  to  see  whether  society  could,  by  the  strength  of  this  princi- 
ple, maintain  its  own  peace  and  good  government,  carry  forward 
its  own  great  interests,  and  conduct  itself  to  political  renown  and 
glory.  By  the  benignity  of  Providence,  this  experiment,  so  full 
of  interest  to  us  and  to  our  posterity  forever,  so  full  of  interest, 
indeed,  to  the  world  in  its  present  generation  and  in  all  its  gen- 
erations to  come,  was  suffered  to  commence  under  the  guidance 
of  Washington.  Destined  for  this  high  career,  he  was  fitted  for 
it  by  wisdom,  by  virtue,  by  patriotism,  by  discretion,  by  whatever 
can  inspire  confidence  in  man  towards  man.  In  entering  on  the 
untried  scenes,  early  disappointment  and  the  premature  extinc- 
tion of  all  hope  of  success  would  have  been  certain,  had  it  not 
been  that  there  did  exist  throughout  the  country,  in  a  most  ex- 
traordinary degree,  an  unwavering  trust  in  him  who  stood  at  the 
helm. 

I  remarked,  gentlemen,  that  the  whole  world  was  and  is  in- 
terested in  the  result  of  this  experiment.  And  is  it  not  so  ?  Do 
we  deceive  ourselves,  or  is  it  true  that  at  this  moment  the  career 
which  this  government  is  running  is  among  the  most  attractive 


THE   CHARACTER   OF   WASHINGTON.  77 

objects  to  the  civilized  world  ?  Do  we  deceive  ourselves,  or  is  it 
true  that  at  this  moment  that  love  of  liberty,  and  that  understand- 
ing of  its  true  principles,  which  are  flying  over  the  whole  earth 
as  on  the  wings  of  all  the  winds,  are  really  and  truly  of  American 
origin  ? 

At  the  period  of  the  birth  of  Washington,  there  existed  in 
Europe  no  political  liberty  in  large  communities,  except  in  the 
provinces  of  Holland,  and  except  that  England  herself  had  set  a 
great  example,  so  far  as  it  went,  by  her  glorious  Revolution  of 
1688.  Everywhere  else  despotic  power  was  predominant,  and 
the  feudal  or  military  principle  held  the  mass  of  mankind  in 
hopeless  bondage.  One  half  of  Europe  was  crushed  beneath  the 
Bourbon  scepter ;  and  no  conception  of  political  liberty,  no  hope 
even  of  religious  toleration,  existed  among  that  nation  which  was 
America's  first,  ally.  The  king  was  the  state,1  the  king  was  the 
country,  the  king  was  all.  There  was  one  king,  with  power  not 
derived  from  his  people,  and  too  high  to  be  questioned ;  and  the 
rest  were  all  subjects,  with  no  political  right  but  obedience.  All 
above  was  intangible  power;  all  below,  quiet  subjection.  A 
recent  occurrence  in  the  French  Chambers  shows  us  how  public 
opinion  on  these  subjects  is  changed.  A  minister  had  spoken  of 
the  "  king's  subjects."  "  There  are  no  subjects,"  exclaimed  hun- 
dreds of  voices  at  once,  "  in  a  country  where  the  people  make 
the  king  ! " 

Gentlemen,  the  spirit  of  human  liberty  and  of  free  government, 
nurtured  and  grown  into  strength  and  beauty  in  America,  has 
stretched  its  course  into  the  midst  of  the  nations.  Like  an 
emanation  from  Heaven,  it  has  gone  forth,  and  it  will  not  return 
void.  It  must  change,  it  is  fast  changing,  the  face  of  the  earth. 
Our  great,  our  high  duty  is  to  show,  in  our  own  example,  that 
this  spirit  is  a  spirit  of  health  as  well  as  a  spirit  of  power ;  that 
its  benignity  is  as  great  as  its  strength ;  that  its  efficiency  to 
secure  individual  rights,  social  relations,  and  moral  order,  is  equal 

1  An  allusion  to  the  famous  dictum  of  Louis  XIV.,  "  Detat  c*est  mot" 
("  I  am  the  state  ").  See  p.  37. 


78  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

to  the  irresistible  force  with  which  it  prostrates  principalities  and 
powers.  The  world  at  this  moment  is  regarding  us  with  a  will- 
ing, but  something  of  a  fearful  admiration.  Its  deep  and  awful 
anxiety  is  to  learn  whether  free  states  may  be  stable,  as  well  as 
free ;  whether  popular  power  may  be  trusted,  as  well  as  feared : 
in  short,  whether  wise,  regular,  and  virtuous  self-government  is  a 
vision  for  the  contemplation  of  theorists,  or  a  truth  established, 
illustrated,  and  brought  into  practice  in  the  country  of  Washington. 

Gentlemen,  for  the  earth  which  we  inhabit  and  the  whole  circle 
of  the  sun,  for  all  the  unborn  races  of  mankind,  we  seem  to  hold 
in  our  hands,  for  their  weal  or  woe,  the  fate  of  this  experiment. 
If  we  fail,  who  shall  venture  the  repetition  ?  If  our  example 
shall  prove  to  be  one,  not  of  encouragement,  but  of  terror,  not 
fit  to  be  imitated,  but  fit  only  to  be  shunned,  where  else  shall 
the  world  look  for  free  models  ?  If  this  great  Western  Sun  be 
struck  out  of  the  firmament,  at  what  other  fountain  shall  the  lamp 
of  liberty  hereafter  be  lighted  ?  What  other  orb  shall  emit  a  ray 
to  glimmer  even,  on  the  darkness  of  the  world  ? 

There  is  no  danger  of  our  overrating  or  overstating  the  impor- 
tant part  which  we  are  now  acting  in  human  affairs.  It  should 
not  flatter  our  personal  self-respect ;  but  it  should  reanimate  our 
patriotic  virtues,  and  inspire  us  with  a  deeper  and  more  solemn 
sense,  both  of  our  privileges  and  of  our  duties.  We  cannot  wish 
better  for  our  country  nor  for  the  world  than  that  the  same 
spirit  which  influenced  Washington  may  influence  all  who  suc- 
ceed him;  and  that  the  same  blessing  from  above,  which  at- 
tended his  efforts,  may  also  attend  theirs. 

The  principles  of  Washington's  administration  are  not  left 
doubtful.  They  are  to  be  found  in  the  Constitution  itself,  in 
the  great  measures  recommended  and  approved  by  him,  in  his 
speeches  to  Congress,  and  in  that  most  interesting  paper,  his 
"  Farewell  Address  to  the  People  of  the  United  States."  The 
success  of  the  government  under  his  administration  is  the  highest 
proof  of  the  soundness  of  these  principles.  And,  after  an  experi- 
ence of  thirty-five  years,  what  is  there  which  an  enemy  could 


THE   CHARACTER   OF   WASHINGTON.  79 

condemn  ?  What  is  there  which  either  his  friends,  or  the  friends 
of  the  country,  could  wish  to  have  been  otherwise  ?  I  speak,  of 
course,  of  great  measures  and  leading  principles. 

In  the  first  place,  all  his  measures  were  right  in  their  intent. 
He  stated  the  whole  basis  of  his  own  great  character,  when  he 
told  the  country,  in  the  homely  phrase  of  the  proverb,  that  hon- 
esty is  the  best  policy.  One  of  the  most  striking  things  ever  said 
of  him  is,  that  "  he  changed  mankind*  s  ideas  of  political  greatness" l 
To  commanding  talents  and  to  success,  the  common  elements 
of  such  greatness,  he  added  a  disregard  of  self,  a  spotlessness  of 
motive,  a  steady  submission  to  every  public  and  private  duty, 
which  threw  far  into  the  shade  the  whole  crowd  of  vulgar  great. 
The  object  of  his  regard  was  the  whole  country.  No  part  of  it 
was  enough  to  fill  his  enlarged  patriotism.  His  love  of  glory,  so 
far  as  that  may  be  supposed  to  have  influenced  him  at  all,  spurned 
everything  short  of  general  approbation.  It  would  have  been 
nothing  to  him,  that  his  partisans  or  his  favorites  outnumbered, 
or  outvoted,  or  outmanaged,  or  outclamored,  those  of  other  lead- 
ers. He  had  no  favorites;  he  rejected  all  partisanship;  and, 
acting  honestly  for  the  universal  good,  he  deserved  what  he  has 
so  richly  enjoyed,  —  the  universal  love. 

His  principle  it  was,  to  act  right,  and  to  trust  the  people  for 
support ;  his  principle  it  was,  not  to  follow  the  lead  of  sinister  and 
selfish  ends,  nor  to  rely  on  the  little  arts  of  party  delusion  to 
obtain  public  sanction  for  such  a  course.  Born  for  his  country 
and  for  the  world,  he  did  not  give  up  to  party  what  was  meant  for 
mankind.  The  consequence  is,  that  his  fame  is  as  durable  as 
his  principles,  as  lasting  as  truth  and  virtue  themselves.  While 
the  hundreds  whom  party  excitement,  and  temporary  circum- 
stances, and  casual  combinations,  have  raised  into  transient 
notoriety,  sink  again,  like  thin  bubbles,  bursting  and  dissolving 
into  the  great  ocean,  Washington's  fame  is  like  the  rock  which 
bounds  that  ocean,  and  at  whose  feet  its  billows  are  destined  to 
break  harmlessly  forever. 

l  Works  of  Fisher  Ames. 


8o  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

The  maxims  upon  which  Washington  conducted  our  foreign 
relations  were  few  and  simple.  The  first  was  an  entire  and 
indisputable  impartiality  towards  foreign  states.  He  adhered 
to  this  rule  of  public  conduct  against  very  strong  inducements  to 
depart  from  it,  and  when  the  popularity  of  the  moment  seemed 
to  favor  such  a  departure.  In  the  next  place,  he  maintained  true 
dignity  and  unsullied  honor  in  all  communications  with  foreign 
states.  It  was  among  the  high  duties  devolved  upon  him  to  in- 
troduce our  new  government  into  the  circle  of  civilized  states  and 
powerful  nations.  Not  arrogant  or  assuming,  with  no  unbecom- 
ing or  supercilious  bearing,  he  yet  exacted  for  it  from  all  others 
entire  and  punctilious  respect.  He  demanded,  and  he  obtained 
at  once,  a  standing  of  perfect  equality  for  his  country  in  the 
society  of  nations  ;  nor  was  there  a  prince  or  potentate  of  his  day 
whose  personal  character  carried  with  it,  into  the  intercourse  of 
other  states,  a  greater  degree  of  respect  and  veneration. 

He  regarded  other  nations  only  as  they  stood  in  political  rela- 
tions to  us.  With  their  internal  affairs,  their  political  parties  and 
dissensions,  he  scrupulously  abstained  from  all  interference ;  and, 
on  the  other  hand,  he  repelled  with  spirit  all  such  interference  by 
others  with  us  or  our  concerns.  His  sternest  rebuke,  the  most 
indignant  measure  of  his  whole  administration,  was  aimed  against 
such  an  attempted  interference.  He  felt  it  as  an  attempt  to 
wound  the  national  honor,  and  resented  it  accordingly. 

The  reiterated  admonitions  in  his  "  Farewell  Address  "  show  his 
deep  fears  that  foreign  influence  would  insinuate  itself  into  our 
counsels  through  the  channels  of  domestic  dissension,  and  obtain 
a  sympathy  with  our  own  temporary  parties.  Against  all  such 
dangers,  he  most  earnestly  entreats  the  country  to  guard  itself. 
He  appeals  to  its  patriotism,  to  its  self-respect,  to  its  own  honor, 
to  every  consideration  connected  with  its  welfare  and  happiness, 
to  resist,  at  the  very  beginning,  all  tendencies  towards  such  con- 
nection of  foreign  interests  with  our  own  affairs.  With  a  tone 
of  earnestness  nowhere  else  found,  even  in  his  last  affectionate 
farewell  advice  to  his  countrymen,  he  says,  "  Against  the  insid- 


THE   CHARACTER   OF   WASHINGTON.  81 

ious  wiles  of  foreign  influence  (I  conjure  you  to  believe  me,  fel- 
low citizens),  the  jealousy  of  a  free  people  ought  to  be  constantly 
awake,  since  history  and  experience  prove  that  foreign  influence 
is  one  of  the  most  baneful  foes  of  republican  government." 

Lastly,  on  the  subject  of  foreign  relations,  Washington  never 
forgot  that  we  had  interests  peculiar  to  ourselves.  The  primary 
political  concerns  of  Europe,  he  saw,  did  not  affect  us.  We  had 
nothing  to  do  with  her  balance  of  power,  her  family  compacts, 
or  her  successions  to  thrones.  We  were  placed  in  a  condition 
favorable  to  neutrality  during  European  wars,  and  to  the  enjoy- 
ment of  all  the  great  advantages  of  that  relation.  "  Why,  then," 
he  asks  us,  "  why  forego  the  advantages  of  so  peculiar  a  situa- 
tion ?  Why  quit  our  own  to  stand  upon  foreign  ground  ?  Why, 
by  interweaving  our  destiny  with  that  of  any  part  of  Europe, 
entangle  our  peace  and  prosperity  in  the  toils  of  European  ambi- 
tion, rivalship,  interest,  humor,  or  caprice  ?  " 

Indeed,  gentlemen,  Washington's  "  Farewell  Address  "  is  full  of 
truths  important  at  all  times,  and  particularly  deserving  consid- 
eration at  the  present.  With  a  sagacity  which  brought  the  future 
before  him,  and  made  it  like  the  present,  he  saw  and  pointed  out 
the  dangers  that  even  at  this  moment  most  imminently  threaten  us. 
I  hardly  know  how  a  greater  service  of  that  kind  could  now  be 
done  to  the  community  than  by  a  renewed  and  wide  diffusion  of 
that  admirable  paper,  and  an  earnest  invitation  to  every  man  in 
the  country  to  reperuse  and  consider  it.  Its  political  maxims 
are  invaluable;  its  exhortations  to  love  of  country  and  to 
brotherly  affection  among  citizens,  touching ;  and  the  solem- 
nity with  which  it  urges  the  observance  of  moral  duties,  and  im- 
presses the  power  of  religious  obligation,  gives  to  it  the  highest 
character  of  truly  disinterested,  sincere,  parental  advice. 

The  domestic  policy  of  Washington  found  its  polestar  in  the 
avowed  objects  of  the  Constitution  itself.  He  sought  so  to 
administer  that  Constitution  as  to  form  a  more  perfect  union, 
establish  justice,  insure  domestic  tranquillity,  provide  for  the 
common  defense,  promote  the  general  welfare,  and  secure  the 
6 


82  DANIEL   WEBSTER. 

blessings  of  liberty.  These  were  objects  interesting  in  the  high- 
est degree  to  the  whole  country ;  and  his  policy  embraced  the 
whole  country. 

Among  his  earliest  and  most  important  duties  was  the  organ- 
ization of  the  government  itself,  the  choice  of  his  confidential 
advisers,  and  the  various  appointments  to  office.  This  duty,  so 
important  and  delicate,  when  a  whole  government  was  to  be 
organized,  and  all  its  offices  for  the  first  time  filled,  was  yet  not 
difficult  to  him ;  for  he  had  no  sinister  ends  to  accomplish,  no 
clamorous  partisans  to  gratify,  no  pledges  to  redeem,  no  object 
to  be  regarded,  but  simply  the  public  good.  It  was  a  plain, 
straightforward  matter,  a  mere  honest  choice  of  good  men  for 
the  public  service. 

His  own  singleness  of  purpose,  his  disinterested  patriotism, 
were  evinced  by  the  selection  of  his  first  Cabinet,  and  by  the 
manner  in  which  he  filled  the  seats  of  justice  and  other  places 
of  high  trust.  He  sought  for  men  fit  for  offices,  not  for  offices 
which  might  suit  men.  Above  personal  considerations,  above 
local  considerations,  above  party  considerations,  he  felt  that  he 
could  only  discharge  the  sacred  trust  which  the  country  had 
placed  in  his  hands,  by  a  diligent  inquiry  after  real  merit,  and  a 
conscientious  preference  of  virtue  and  talent.  The  whole  coun- 
try was  the  field  of  his  selection.  He  explored  that  whole  field, 
looking  only  for  whatever  it  contained  most  worthy  and  distin- 
guished. He  was,  indeed,  most  successful ;  and  he  deserved  suc- 
cess for  the  purity  of  his  motives,  the  liberality  of  his  sentiments, 
and  his  enlarged  and  manly  policy. 

Washington's  administration  established  the  national  credit, 
made  provision  for  the  public  debt  and  for  that  patriotic  army 
whose  interests  and  welfare  were  always  so  dear  to  him,  and, 
by  laws  wisely  framed  and  of  admirable  effect,  raised  the  com- 
merce and  navigation  of  the  country,  almost  at  once,  from  de- 
pression and  ruin  to  a  state  of  prosperity.  Nor  were  his  eyes 
open  to  these  interests  alone.  He  viewed  with  equal  concern  its 
agriculture  and  manufactures,  and,  so  far  as  they  came  within  the 


THE   CHARACTER   OF   WASHINGTON.  83 

regular  exercise  of  the  powers  of  this  government,  they  experi- 
enced regard  and  favor. 

It  should  not  be  omitted,  even  in  this  slight  reference  to  the 
general  measures  and  general  principles  of  the  first  President, 
that  he  saw  and  felt  the  full  value  and  importance  of  the  judicial 
department  of  the  government.  An  upright  and  able  administra- 
tion of  the  laws,  he  held  to  be  alike  indispensable  to  private  hap- 
piness and  public  liberty.  The  temple  of  justice,  in  his  opinion, 
was  a  sacred  place,  and  he  would  profane  and  pollute  it  who 
should  call  any  to  minister  in  it  not  spotless  in  character,  not 
incorruptible  in  integrity,  not  competent  by  talent  and  learning, 
not  a  fit  object  of  unhesitating  trust. 

Among  other  admonitions,  Washington  has  left  us,  in  his  last 
communication  to  his  country,  an  exhortation  against  the  ex- 
cesses of  party  spirit.  A  fire  not  to  be  quenched,  he  yet  con- 
jures us  not  to  fan  and  feed  the  flame.  Undoubtedly,  gentle- 
men, it  is  the  greatest  danger  of  our  system  and  of  our  time. 
Undoubtedly,  if  that  system  should  be  overthrown,  it  will  be  the 
work  of  excessive  party  spirit,  acting  on  the  government,  which 
is  dangerous  enough,  or  acting  in  the  government,  which  is  a 
thousand  times  more  dangerous ;  for  government  then  becomes 
nothing  but  organized  party,  and,  in  the  strange  vicissitudes  of 
human  affairs,  it  may  come  at  last,  perhaps,  to  exhibit  the  singu- 
lar paradox  of  government  itself  being  in  opposition  to  its  own 
powers,  at  war  with  the  very  elements  of  its  own  existence.  Such 
cases  are  hopeless.  As  men  may  be  protected  against  murder, 
but  cannot  be  guarded  against  suicide,  so  government  may  be 
shielded  from  the  assaults  of  external  foes ;  but  nothing  can  save 
it  when  it  chooses  to  lay  violent  hands  on  itself. 

Finally,  gentlemen,  there  was  in  the  breast  of  Washington  one 
sentiment  so  deeply  felt,  so  constantly  uppermost,  that  no  proper 
occasion  escaped  without  its  utterance.  From  the  letter  which 
he  signed  in  behalf  of  the  Convention  when  the  Constitution  was 
sent  out  to  the  people,  to  the  moment  when  he  put  his  hand  to 
that  last  paper  in  which  he  addressed  his  countrymen,  the  Union 


84  DANIEL    WEBSTER.       . 

—  the  Union  was  the  great  object  of  his  thoughts.  In  that  first 
letter  he  tells  them  that,  to  him  and  his  brethren  of  the  Conven- 
tion, union  appears  to  be  the  greatest  interest  of  every  true  Ameri- 
can ;  and  in  that  last  paper  he  conjures  them  to  regard  that  unity 
of  government  which  constitutes  them  one  people,  as  the  very 
palladium l  of  their  prosperity  and  safety,  and  the  security  of 
liberty  itself.  He  regarded  the  union  of  these  States  less  as  one 
of  our  blessings  than  as  the  great  treasure-house  which  contained 
them  all.  Here,  in  his  judgment,  was  the  great  magazine  of  all 
our  means  of  prosperity ;  here,  as  he  thought,  and  as  every  true 
American  still  thinks,  are  deposited  all  our  animating  prospects, 
all  our  solid  hopes  for  future  greatness.  He  has  taught  us  to 
maintain  this  union,  not  by  seeking  to  enlarge  the  powers  of  the 
government,  on  the  one  hand,  nor  by  surrendering  them,  on  the 
other,  but  by  an  administration  of  them  at  once  firm  and  mod- 
erate, pursuing  objects  truly  national,  and  carried  on  in  a  spirit 
of  justice  and  equity. 

The  extreme  solicitude  for  the  preservation  of  the  Union,  at 
all  times  manifested  by  him,  shows  not  only  the  opinion  he 
entertained  of  its  importance,  but  his  clear  perception  of  those 
causes  which  were  likely  to  spring  up  to  endanger  it,  and  which, 
if  once  they  should  overthrow  the  present  system,  would  leave 
little  hope  of  any  future  beneficial  union.  Of  all  the  presump- 
tions indulged  by  presumptuous  man,  that  is  one  of  the  rashest 
which  looks  for  repeated  and  favorable  opportunities  for  the 
deliberate  establishment  of  a  united  government  over  distinct  and 
widely  extended  communities.  Such  a  thing  has  happened  once 
in  human  affairs,  and  but  once :  the  event  stands  out  as  a  prom- 
inent exception  to  all  ordinary  history ;  and,  unless  we  suppose 
ourselves  running  into  an  age  of  miracles,  we  may  not  expect  its 
repetition. 

Washington,  therefore,  could  regard,  and  did  regard,  nothing 

1  Preserver.  This  was  the  name  applied  to  the  statue  of  Pallas  Athene, 
the  presence  of  which  within  the  walls  of  Troy  was  believed  to  assure  the 
preservation  of  the  city  from  the  attacks  of  the  Greeks. 


THE   CHARACTER   OF   WASHINGTON.  85 

as  of  paramount  political  interest  but  the  integrity  of  the  Union 
itself.  With  a  united  government  well  administered,  he  saw  that 
we  had  nothing  to  fear ;  and  without  it,  nothing  to  hope.o  The 
sentiment  is  just,  and  its  momentous  truth  should  solemnly 
impress  the  whole  country.  If  we  might  regard  our  country  as 
personated  in  the  spirit  of  Washington ;  if  we  might  consider  him 
as  representing  her  in  her  past  renown,  her  present  prosperity, 
and  her  future  career,  and  as,  in  that  character,  demanding  of  us 
all  to  account  for  our  conduct  as  political  men  or  as  private 
citizens,  — how  should  he  answer  him  who  has  ventured  to  talk  of 
disunion  and  dismemberment  ?  Or  how  should  he  answer  him 
who  dwells  perpetually  on  local  interests,  and  fans  every  kindling 
flame  of  local  prejudice  ?  How  should  he  answer  him  who 
would  array  State  against  State,  interest  against  interest,  and  party 
against  party,  careless  of  the  continuance  of  that  unity  of  govern- 
ment which  constitutes  us  one  people  ? 

The  political  prosperity  which  this  country  has  attained,  and 
which  it  now  enjoys,  has  been  acquired  mainly  through  the  in- 
strumentality of  the  present  government.  While  this  agent  con- 
tinues, the  capacity  of  attaining  to  still  higher  degrees  of  pros- 
perity exists  also.  We  have,  while  this  lasts,  a  political  life  capa- 
ble of  beneficial  exertion,  with  power  to  resist  or  overcome  mis- 
fortunes, to  sustain  us  against  the  ordinary  accidents  of  human 
affairs,  and  to  promote,  by  active  efforts,  every  public  interest. 
But  dismemberment  strikes  at  the  very  being  which  preserves 
these  faculties.  It  would  lay  its  rude  and  ruthless  hand  on  this 
great  agent  itself.  It  would  sweep  away,  not  only  what  we  pos- 
sess, but  all  power  of  regaining  lost,  or  acquiring  new  possessions. 
It  would  leave  the  country  not  only  bereft  of  its  prosperity  and 
happiness,  but  without  limbs,  or  organs,  or  faculties  by  which  to 
exert  itself  hereafter  in  the  pursuit  of  that  prosperity  and  happiness. 

Other  misfortunes  may  be  borne,  or  their  effects  overcome.  If 
disastrous  war  should  sweep  our  commerce  from  the  ocean,  an- 
other generation  may  renew  it ;  if  it  exhaust  our  treasury,  future 
industry  may  replenish  it ;  if  it  desolate  and  lay  waste  our  fields, 


86  DANIEL   WEBSTER. 

still,  under  a  new  cultivation,  they  will  grow  green  again,  and 
ripen  to  future  harvests.  It  were  but  a  trifle,  even  if  the  walls  of 
yonder  Capitol  were  to  crumble,  if  its  lofty  pillars  should  fall, 
and  its  gorgeous  decorations  be  all  covered  by  the  dust  of  the 
valley.  All  these  might  be  rebuilt.  But  who  shall  reconstruct 
the  fabric  of  demolished  government  ?  Who  shall  rear  again 
the  well-proportioned  columns  of  constitutional  liberty  ?  Who 
shall  frame  together  the  skillful  architecture  which  unites  national 
sovereignty  with  State  rights,  individual  security,  and  public  pros- 
perity ?  No,  if  these  columns  fall,  they  will  be  raised  not  again. 
Like  the  Coliseum  l  and  the  Parthenon,2  they  will  be  destined  to 
a  mournful,  a  melancholy  immortality.  Bitterer  tears,  however, 
will  flow  over  them  than  were  ever  shed  over  the  monuments  of 
Roman  or  Grecian  art ;  for  they  will  be  the  remnants  of  a  more 
glorious  edifice  than  Greece  or  Rome  ever  saw,  —  the  edifice  of 
constitutional  American  liberty. 

But  let  us  hope  for  better  things.  Let  us  trust  in  that  gracious 
Being  who  has  hitherto  held  our  country  as  in  the  hollow  of  his 
hand.  Let  us  trust  to  the  virtue  and  the  intelligence  of  the 
people,  and  to  the  efficacy  of  religious  obligation.  Let  us  trust 
to  the  influence  of  Washington's  example.  Let  us  hope  that 
that  fear  of  Heaven  which  expels  all  other  fear,  and  that  regard 
to  duty  which  transcends  all  other  regard,  may  influence  public 
men  and  private  citizens,  and  lead  our  country  still  onward  in 
her  happy  career.  Full  of  these  gratifying  anticipations  and 
hopes,  let  us  look  forward  to  the  end  of  that  century  which  is 
now  commenced.  A  hundred  years  hence,  other  disciples  of 
Washington  will  celebrate  his  birth,  with  no  less  of  sincere  ad- 
miration than  we  now  commemorate  it.  When  they  shall  meet, 
as  we  now  meet,  to  do  themselves  and  him  that  honor,  so  surely 
as  they  shall  see  the  blue  summits  of  his  native  mountains  rise  in 
the  horizon,  so  surely  as  they  shall  behold  the  river  on  whose 
banks  he  lived,  and  on  whose  banks  he  rests,  still  flowing  on  to- 

1  The  famous  amphitheater  at  Rome,  built  by  the  Emperor  Vespasian. 

2  The  marble  temple  of  Athene,  on  the  Acropolis  at  Athens. 


THE    CHARACTER   OF   WASHINGTON.  87 

wards  the  sea,  so  surely  may  they  see,  as  we  now  see,  the  flag  of 
the  Union  floating  on  the  top  of  the  Capitol ;  and  then,  as  now, 
may  the  sun  in  his  course  visit  no  land  more  free,  more  happy, 
more  lovely,  than  this  our  own  country  ! 
Gentlemen,  I  propose 

'•THE  MEMORY  OF  GEORGE  WASHINGTON." 


THE   LANDING  AT   PLYMOUTH. 

A    SPEECH    DELIVERED    ON    THE    22D    OF    DECEMBER,    1843,    AT 

THE    PUBLIC    DINNER    OF    THE    NEW-ENGLAND    SOCIETY 

OF    NEW    YORK,    IN    COMMEMORATION    OF    THE 

LANDING    OF    THE    PILGRIMS. 


MR.  PRESIDENT,  I  have  a  grateful  duty  to  perform 
in  acknowledging  the  kindness  of  the  sentiment  thus  ex- 
pressed towards  me.1  And  yet  I  must  say,  gentlemen,  that  I  rise 
upon  this  occasion  under  a  consciousness  that  I  may  probably 
disappoint  highly  raised,  too  highly  raised  expectations.  In  the 
scenes  of  this  evening,  and  in  the  scene  of  this  day,  my  part  is  a 
humble  one.  I  can  enter  into  no  competition  with  the  fresher 
geniuses  of  those  more  eloquent  gentlemen,  learned  and  rever- 

1  On  the  22d  of  December,  1843,  the  anniversary  of  the  landing  at  Plym- 
outh was  celebrated  with  great  success  by  the  New-England  Society  of  New 
York.  The  exercises  were  opened  with  a  commemorative  oration  by  the 
Hon.  Rufus  Choate ;  and  later  in  the  day  the  Society  and  a  number  of  invited 
guests  met  at  a  public  dinner  at  the  Astor  House.  After  several  appropriate 
toasts  had  been  given  and  responded  to,  George  Griswold  rose,  and  offered  a 
few  complimentary  remarks  concerning  Daniel  Webster.  After  referring  to 
that  gentleman's  public  services,  to  his  refutation  of  the  doctrine  of  nullifica- 
tion, and  to  the  wisdom  of  his  course  in  connection  with  the  treaty  of  Wash- 
ington, Mr.  Griswold  gave  the  following  toast :  — 

"  DANIEL  WEBSTER, — the  gift  of  New  England_to  his  country,  his  whole 
country,  and  nothing  but  his  country." 

When  Mr.  Webster  rose  to  respond  to  this  toast,  he  was  greeted  with  nine 
hearty  and  prolonged  cheers;  and  when  quiet  had  been  restored,  he  proceeded 
to  deliver  this  address. 

88 


THE  LANDING  AT  PLYMOUTH.  89 

end,  who  have  addressed  this  Society.  I  may  perform,  however, 
the  humbler,  but  sometimes  useful,  duty  of  contrast,  by  adding 
the  dark  ground  of  the  picture,  which  shall  serve  to  bring  out 
the  more  brilliant  colors. 

I  must  receive,  gentlemen,  the  sentiment  proposed  by  the 
worthy  and  distinguished  citizen  of  New  York  before  me,  as  in- 
tended to  convey  the  idea,  that  as  a  citizen  of  New  England,  as 
a  son,  a  child,  a  creation,  of  New  England,  I  may  be  yet  supposed 
to  entertain,  in  some  degree,  that  enlarged  view  of  my  duty  as  a 
citizen  of  the  United  States  and  as  a  public  man,  which  may,  in 
some  small  measure,  commend  me  to  the  regard  of  the  whole 
country.  While  I  am  free  to  confess,  gentlemen,  that  there  is 
no  compliment  of  which  I  am  more  desirous  to  be  thought 
worthy,  I  will  add,  that  a  compliment  of  that  kind  could  have 
proceeded  from  no  source  more  agreeable  to  my  own  feelings 
than  from  the  gentleman  who  has  proposed  it,  —  an  eminent 
merchant,  the  member  of  a  body  of  eminent  merchants,  known 
throughout  the  world  for  their  intelligence  and  enterprise.  I  the 
more  especially  feel  this,  gentlemen,  because,  whether  I  view  the 
present  state  of  things,  or  recur  to  the  history  of  the  past,  I  can 
in  neither  case  be  ignorant  how  much  that  profession  and  its 
distinguished  members,  from  an  early  day  of  our  history,  have 
contributed  to  make  the  country  what  it  is,  and  the  government 
what  it  is. 

Gentlemen,  the  free  nature  of  our  institutions,  and  the  popular 
form  of  those  governments  which  have  come  down  to  us  from 
the  Rock  of  Plymouth,  give  scope  to  intelligence,  to  talent,  en- 
terprise, and  public  spirit,  from  all  classes  making  up  the  great 
body  of  the  community.  And  the  country  has  received  benefit, 
in  all  its  history  and  in  all  its  exigencies,  of  the  most  eminent  and 
striking  character,  from  persons  of  the  class  to  which  my  friend 
before  me  belongs.  Who  will  ever  forget  that  the  first  name 
signed  to  our  ever-memorable  and  ever-glorious  Declaration  of 
Independence  is  the  name  of  John  Hancock,  a  merchant  of 
Boston  ?  Who  will  ever  forget,  that  in  the  most  disastrous  days 


90  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

of  the  Revolution,  when  the  treasury  of  the  country  was  bank- 
rupt, with  unpaid  navies  and  starving  armies,  it  was  a  merchant, 
—  Robert  Morris  of  Philadelphia,  —  who  by  a  noble  sacrifice  of 
his  own  fortune,  as  well  as  by  the  exercise  of  his  great  financial 
abilities,  sustained  and  supported  the  wise  men  of  the  country  in 
council,  and  the  brave  men  of  the  country  in  the  field  of  battle  ? 
Nor  are  there  wanting  more  recent  instances.  I  have  the  pleas- 
ure to  see  near  me,  and  near  my  friend  who  proposed  this  sen- 
timent, the  son  of  an  eminent  merchant  of  New  England  [Mr. 
Goodhue],  an  early  member  of  the  Senate  of  the  United  States, 
always  consulted,  always  respected,  in  whatever  belonged  to  the 
duty  and  the  means  of  putting  in  operation  the  financial  and 
commercial  system  of  the  country;  and  this  mention  of  the 
father  of  my  friend  brings  to  my  mind  the  memory  of  his  great 
colleague,  the  early  associate  of  Hamilton  and  of  Ames,  trusted 
and  beloved  by  Washington,  consulted  on  all  occasions  connected 
with  the  administration  of  the  finances,  the  establishment  of  the 
treasury  department,  the  imposition  of  the  first  rates  of  duty,  and 
with  everything  that  belonged  to  the  commercial  system  of  the 
United  States,  —  George  Cabot  of  Massachusetts. 

I  will  take  this  occasion  to  say,  gentlemen,  that  there  is  no 
truth  better  developed  and  established  in  the  history  of  the  United 
States,  from  the  formation  of  the  Constitution  to  the  present  time, 
than  this,  —  that  the  mercantile  classes,  the  great  commercial 
masses  of  the  country,  whose  affairs  connect  them  strongly  with 
every  State  in  the  Union  and  with  all  the  nations  of  the  earth, 
whose  business  and  profession  give  a  sort  of  nationality  to  their 
character,  —  that  no  class  of  men  among  us,  from  the  beginning, 
have  shown  a  stronger  and  firmer  devotion  to  whatsoever  has 
been  designed,  or  to  whatever  has  tended,  to  preserve  the  union 
of  these  States  and  the  stability  of  the  free  government  under 
which  we  live.  The  Constitution  of  the  United  States,  in  regard 
to  the  various  municipal  regulations  and  local  interests,  has  left 
the  States  individual,  disconnected,  isolated.  It  has  left  them 
their  own  codes  of  criminal  law ;  it  has  left  them  their  own  sys- 


THE  LANDING  AT  PLYMOUTH.  91 

tern  of  municipal  regulations.  But  there  was  one  great  interest, 
one  great  concern,  which,  from  the  very  nature  of  the  case,  was 
no  longer  to  be  left  under  the  regulations  of  the  then  thirteen, 
afterwards  twenty,  and  now  twenty-six  States,  but  was  com- 
mitted, necessarily  committed,  to  the  care,  the  protection,  and 
the  regulation  of  one  government ;  and  this  was  that  great  unit, 
as  it  has  been  called,  the  commerce  of  the  United  States.  There 
is  no  commerce  of  New  York,  no  commerce  of  Massachusetts, 
none  of  Georgia,  none  of  Alabama  or  Louisiana.  All  and  singu- 
lar, in  the  aggregate  and  in  all  its  parts,  is  the  commerce  of  the 
United  States,  regulated  at  home  by  a  uniform  system  of  laws 
under  the  authority  of  the  general  government,  and  protected 
abroad  under  the  flag  of  our  government,  the  glorious  E  Pluribus 
Unurn^  and  guarded,  if  need  be,  by  the  power  of  the  general 
government  all  over  the  world.  There  is,  therefore,  gentlemen, 
nothing  more  cementing,  nothing  that  makes  us  more  cohesive, 
nothing  that  more  repels  all  tendencies  to  separation  and  dis- 
memberment, than  this  great,  this  common,  I  may  say  this  over- 
whelming interest  of  one  commerce,  one  general  system  of  trade 
and  navigation,  one  everywhere  and  with  every  nation  of  the 
globe.  There  is  no  flag  of  any  particular  American  State  seen 
in  the  Pacific  seas,  or  in  the  Baltic,  or  in  the  Indian  Ocean.  Who 
knows,  or  who  hears,  there  of  your  proud  State,  or  of  my  proud 
State  ?  Who  knows,  or  who  hears,  of  anything,  at  the  extremest 
north  or  south,  or  at  the  antipodes ;  in  the  remotest  regions  of 
the  Eastern  or  Western  sea, — who  ever  hears,  or  knows,  of  any- 
thing but  an  American  ship,  or  of  any  American  enterprise  of  a 
commercial  character  that  does  not  bear  the  impression  of  the 
American  Union  with  it  ? 

It  would  be  a  presumption  of  which  I  cannot  be  guilty,  gentle- 
men, for  me  to  imagine  for  a  moment,  that,  among  the  gifts 
which  New  England  has  made  to  our  common  countiy,  I  am 
anything  more  than  one  of  the  most  inconsiderable.  I  readily 
bring  to  mind  the  great  men,  not  only  with  whom  I  have  met, 

1  One  out  of  many, — the  motto  of  the  United  States. 


92  DANIEL   WEBSTER. 

but  those  of  the  generation  before  me,  who  now  sleep  with  their 
fathers,  distinguished  in  the  Revolution,  distinguished  in  the 
formation  of  the  Constitution  and  in  the  early  administration  of 
the  government,  always  and  everywhere  distinguished ;  and  I 
shrink  in  just  and  conscious  humiliation  before  their  established 
character  and  established  renown ;  and  all  that  I  venture  to  say, 
and  all  that  I  venture  to  hope  may  be  thought  true  in  the  senti- 
ment proposed,  is,  that  so  far  as  mind  and  purpose,  so  far  as 
intention  and  will,  are  concerned,  I  may  be  found  among  those 
who  are  capable  of  embracing  the  whole  country,  of  which  they 
are  members,  in  a  proper,  comprehensive,  and  patriotic  regard. 
We  all  know  that  the  objects  which  are  nearest  are  the  objects 
which  are  dearest.  Family  affections,  neighborhood  affections, 
social  relations  ;  these,  in  truth,  are  nearest  and  dearest  to  us  all : 
but  whosoever  shall  be  able  rightly  to  adjust  the  graduation  of 
his  affections,  and  to  love  his  friends  and  his  neighbors  and  his 
country  as  he  ought  to  love  them,  merits  the  commendation  pro- 
nounced by  the  philosophic  poet  upon  him 

"Qui  didicit  patriae  quid  debeat,  et  quid  amicis."1 

Gentlemen,  it  has  been  my  fortune,  in  the  little  part  which  I 
have  acted  in  public  life,  for  good  or  for  evil  to  the  community, 
to  be  connected  entirely  with  that  government,  which,  within  the 
limits  of  constitutional  power,  exercises  jurisdiction  over  all  the 
States  and  all  the  people.  My  friend  at  the  end  of  the  table,  on 
my  left,  has  spoken  pleasantly  to  us  to-night  of  the  reputed  mira- 
cles of  tutelar  saints.  In  a  sober  sense,  in  a  sense  of  deep  con- 
viction, I  say  that  the  emergence  of  this  country  from  British 
domination,  and  its  union,  under  its  present  form  of  government, 
beneath  the  general  Constitution  of  the  country,  if  not  a  miracle, 
is,  I  do  not  say  the  most,  but  one  of  the  most,  fortunate,  the  most 
admirable,  the  most  auspicious,  occurrences  which  have  ever 
fallen  to  the  lot  of  man.  Circumstances  have  wrought  out  for 

1  "  Who  has  learned  what  he  owes  to  his  country,  and  what  to  his  friends." 
• —  HORACE. 


THE  LANDING  AT  PLYMOUTH.  93 

us  a  state  of  things,  which,  in  other  times  and  other  regions,  phi- 
losophy has  dreamed  of,  and  theory  has  proposed,  and  speculation 
has  suggested,  but  which  man  has  never  been  able  to  accomplish. 
I  mean  the  government  of  a  great  nation,  over  a  vastly  extended 
portion  of  the  surface  of  the  earth,  by  means  of  local  institutions 
for  local  purposes,  and  general  institutions  for  general  purposes.  I 
know  of  nothing  in  the  history  of  the  world,  notwithstanding  the 
great  league  of  Grecian  states,  notwithstanding  the  success  of  the 
Roman  system  (and  certainly  there  is  no  exception  to  the  remark 
in  modern  history),  —  I  know  of  nothing  so  suitable,  on  the  whole, 
for  the  great  interests  of  a  great  people  spread  over  a  large  por- 
tion of  the  globe,  as  the  provision  of  local  legislation  for  local 
and  municipal  purposes,  with,  not  a  confederacy,  nor  a  loose 
binding  together  of  separate  parts,  but  a  limited,  positive  general 
government,  for  positive  general  purposes,  over  the  whole.  We 
may  derive  eminent  proofs  of  this  truth  from  the  past  and  the 
present.  What  see  we  to-day  in  the  agitations  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Atlantic  ?  I  speak  of  them,  of  course,  without  expressing, 
any  opinion  on  questions  of  politics  in  a  foreign  country ;  but  I 
speak  of  them  as  an  occurrence  which  shows  the  great  expedi- 
ency, the  utility,  I  may  say  the  necessity,  of  local  legislation. 
If,  in  a  country  on  the  other  side  of  the  water  [Ireland],  there  be 
some  who  desire  a  severance  of  one  part  of  the  empire  from 
another,  under  a  proposition  of  repeal,  there  are  others  who  pro- 
pose a  continuance  of  the  existing  relation  under  a  federative 
system :  and  what  is  this  ?  No  more  and  no  less  than  an  ap- 
proximation to  that  system  under  which  we  live,  which  for  local 
municipal  purposes  shall  have  a  local  legislature,  and  for  general 
purposes  a  general  legislature. 

This  becomes  the  more  important  when  we  consider  that  the 
United  States  stretch  over  so  many  degrees  of  latitude,  that 
they  embrace  such  a  variety  of  climate,  that  various  conditions 
and  relations  of  society  naturally  call  for  different  laws  and  regu- 
lations. Let  me  ask  whether  the  Legislature  of  New  York  could 
wisely  pass  laws  for  the  government  of  Louisiana,  or  whether 


94  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

the  Legislature  of  Louisiana  could  wisely  pass  laws  for  Pennsyl- 
vania or  New  York.  Everybody  will  say,  "  No."  And  yet  the 
interests  of  New  York  and  Pennsylvania  and  Louisiana,  in  what- 
ever concerns  their  relations  between  themselves  and  their  gen- 
eral relations  with  all  the  states  of  the  world,  are  found  to  be  per- 
fectly well  provided  for,  and  adjusted  with  perfect  congruity,  by 
committing  these  general  interests  to  one  common  government, 
the  result  of  popular  general  elections  among  them  all. 

I  confess,  gentlemen,  that  having  been,  as  I  have  said,  in  my 
humble  career  in  public  life,  employed  in  that  portion  of  the  pub- 
lic service  which  is  connected  with  the  general  government,  I 
have  contemplated,  as  the  great  object  of  every  proceeding,  not 
only  the  particular  benefit  of  the  moment,  or  the  exigency  of  the 
occasion,  but  the  preservation  of  this  system ;  for  I  do  consider 
it  so  much  the  result  of  circumstances,  and  that  so  much  of  it  is 
due  to  fortunate  concurrence  as  well  as  to  the  sagacity  of  the 
great  men  acting  upon  those  occasions,  that  it  is  an  experiment 
of  such  remarkable  and  renowned  success,  that  he  is  a  fool  or 
a  madman  who  would  wish  to  try  that  experiment  a  second  time. 
I  see  to-day,  and  we  all  see,  that  the  descendants  of  the  Puritans, 
who  landed  upon  the  Rock  of  Plymouth ;  the  followers  of 
Raleigh,  who  settled  Virginia  and  North  Carolina ;  he  who  lives 
where  the  truncheon  of  empire,  so  to  speak,  was  borne  by  Smith  ; 
the  inhabitants  of  Georgia ;  he  who  settled,  under  the  auspices  of 
France,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Mississippi ;  the  Swede  on  the  Dela- 
ware; the  Quaker  of  Pennsylvania,  —  all  find  at  this  day  their 
common  interest,  their  common  protection,  their  common  glory, 
under  the  united  government,  which  leaves  them  all,  nevertheless, 
in  the  administration  of  their  own  municipal  and  local  affairs,  to 
be  Frenchmen,  or  Swedes,  or  Quakers,  or  whatever  they  choose. 
And  when  one  considers  that  this  system  of  government,  I  will 
not  say  has  produced,  because  God  and  nature  and  circum- 
stances have  had  an  agency  in  it, — but  when  it  is  considered 
that  this  system  has  not  prevented,  but  has  rather  encouraged, 
the  growth  of  the  people  of  this  country  from  three  millions  on 


THE  LANDING  AT  PLYMOUTH.  95 

the  glorious  4th  of  July,  1776,  to  seventeen  millions  now,  who 
is  there  that  will  say,  upon  this  hemisphere,  nay,  who  is  there  that 
will  stand  up  in  any  hemisphere,  who  is  there  in  any  part  of  the 
world,  that  will  say  that  the  great  experiment  of  a  united  repub- 
lic has  failed  in  America  ?  And  yet  I  know,  gentlemen,  I  feel, 
that  this  united  system  is  held  together  by  strong  tendencies  to 
union,  at  the  same  time  that  it  is  kept  from  too  much  leaning  to- 
wards consolidation  by  a  strong  tendency  in  the  several  States 
to  support  each  its  own  power  and  consideration.  In  the  physi- 
cal world  it  is  said,  that 

"  All  nature's  difference  keeps  all  nature's  peace," 

and  there  is  in  the  political  world  this  same  harmonious  difference, 
this  regular  play  of  the  positive  and  negative  powers  (if  I  may  so 
say),  which,  at  least  for  one  glorious  half  century,  has  kept  us  as 
we  have  been  kept,  and  made  us  what  we  are. 

But,  gentlemen,  I  must  not  allow  myself  to  pursue  this  topic. 
It  is  a  sentiment  so  commonly  repeated  by  me  upon  all  public 
occasions,  and  upon  all  private  occasions,  and  everywhere,  that 
I  forbear  to  dwell  upon  it  now.  It  is  the  union  of  these  States, 
it  is  the  system  of  government  under  which  we  live,  beneath  the 
Constitution  of  the  United  States,  happily  framed,  wisely  adopted, 
successfully  administered  for  fifty  years, — it  is  mainly  this,  I  say, 
that  gives  us  power  at  home  and  credit  abroad.  And,  for  one, 
I  never  stop  to  consider  the  power,  or  wealth,  or  greatness  of  a 
State.  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Chairman,  I  care  nothing  for  your  Empire 
State  as  such.  Delaware  and  Rhode  Island  are  as  high  in  my 
regard  as  New  York.  In  population,  in  power,  in  the  govern- 
ment over  us,  you  have  a  greater  share.  You  would  have  the 
same  share,  if  you  were  divided  into  forty  States.  It  is  not, 
therefore,  as  a  State  sovereignty,  it  is  only  because  New  York 
is  a  vast  portion  of  the  whole  American  people,  that  I  regard 
this  State,  as  I  always  shall  regard  her,  as  respectable 1  and  honor 
able.  But  among  State  sovereignties  there  is  no  preference; 

1  See  note,  p.  50. 


g6  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

there  is  nothing  high  and  nothing  low ;  every  State  is  independent, 
and  every  State  is  equal.  If  we  depart  from  this  great  principle, 
then  are  we  no  longer  one  people,  but  we  are  thrown  back 
again  upon  the  Confederation,  and  upon  that  state  of  things  in 
which  the  inequality  of  the  States  produced  all  the  evils  which 
befell  us  in  times  past,  and  a  thousand  ill-adjusted  and  jarring 
interests. 

Mr.  President,  I  wish,  then,  without  pursuing  these  thoughts, 
without  especially  attempting  to  produce  any  fervid  impression 
by  dwelling  upon  them,  to  take  this  occasion  to  answer  my  friend 
who  has  proposed  the  sentiment,  and  to  respond  to  it  by  saying, 
that  whoever  would  serve  his  country  in  this  our  day,  with  what- 
ever degree  of  talent,  great  or  small,  it  may  have  pleased  the 
Almighty  Power  to  give  him,  he  cannot  serve  it,  he  will  not  serve 
it,  unless  he  be  able,  at  least,  to  extend  his  political  designs,  pur- 
poses, and  objects,  till  they  shall  comprehend  the  whole  country 
of  which,  he  is  a  servant. 

,  Sir,  I  must  say  a  word  in  connection  with  that  event  which 
we  have  assembled  to  commemorate.  It  has  seemed  fit  to  the 
dwellers  in  New  York,  New  Englanders  by  birth  or  descent,  to 
form  this  society.  They  have  formed  it  for  the  relief  of  the  poor 
and  distressed,  and  for  the  purpose  of  commemorating  annually 
the  great  event  of  the  settlement  of  the  country  from  which  they 
spring.  It  would  be  great  presumption  in  me  to  go  back  to  the 
scene  of  that  settlement,  or  to  attempt  to  exhibit  it  in  any  colors, 
after  the  exhibition  made  to-day;  yet  it  is  an  event  that  in  all 
time  since,  and  in  all  time  to  come,  and  more  in  times  to  come 
than  in  times  past,  must  stand  out  in  great  and  striking  charac- 
teristics to  the  admiration  of  the  world.  The  sun's  return  to 'his 
winter's  solstice,  in  1620,  is  the  epoch  from  which  he  dates  his 
first  acquaintance  with  the  small  people,  now  one  of  the  happiest, 
and  destined  to  be  one  of  the  greatest,  that  his  rays  fall  upon ; 
and  his  annual  visitation,  from  that  day  to  this,  to  our  frozen 
region,  has  enabled  him  to  see  that  progress,  progress,  was  the 
characteristic  of  that  'small  people.  He  has  seen  them,  from  a 


THE  LANDING  AT  PLYMOUTH.  97 

handful  that  one  of  his  beams  coming  through  a  keyhole  might 
illuminate,  spread  over  a  hemisphere  which  he  cannot  enlighten 
under  the  slightest  eclipse.  Nor,  though  this  globe  should  re- 
volve round  him  for  tens  of  hundreds  of  thousands  of  years,  will 
he  see  such  another  incipient  colonization  upon  any  part  of  this 
attendant  upon  his  mighty  orb.  What  else  he  may  see  in  those 
other  planets  which  revolve  around  him,  we  cannot  tell^  at  least 
until  we  have  tried  the  fifty-foot  telescope  which  Lord  Rosse  is 
preparing  for  that  purpose. 

There  is  not,  gentlemen,  and  we  may  as  well  admit  it,  in  any 
history  of  the  past,  another  epoch  from  which  so  many  great 
events  have  taken  a  turn,  —  events  which,  while  important  to  us, 
are  equally  important  to  the  country  from  whence  we  came.  The 
settlement  of  Plymouth — concurring,  I  always  wish  to  be  under- 
stood, with  that  of  Virginia — was  the  settlement  of  New  England 
by  colonies  of  Old  England.  Now,  gentlemen,  take  these  two 
ideas,  and  run  out  the  thoughts  suggested  by  both.  What  has 
been,  and  what  is  to  be,  Old  England  ?  What  has  been,  what 
is,  and  what  may  be,  in  the  providence  of  God,  New  England, 
with  her  neighbors  and  associates  ?  I  would  not  dwell,  gentle- 
men, with  any  particular  emphasis  upon  the  sentiment,  which  I 
nevertheless  entertain,  with  respect  to  the  great  diversity  in  the 
races  of  men.  I  do  not  know  how  far,  in  that  respect,  I  might  not 
encroach  on  those  mysteries  of  Providence,  which,  while  I  adore, 
I  may  not  comprehend ;  but  it  does  seem  to  me  to  be  very  re- 
markable that  we  may  go  back  to  the  time  when  New  England, 
or  those  who  founded  it,  were  subtracted  from  Old  England,  and 
both  Old  England  and  New  England  went  on,  nevertheless,  in 
their  mighty  career  of  progress  and  power. 

Let  me  begin  with  New  England  for  a  moment.  What  has 
resulted,  embracing,  as  I  say,  the  nearly  contemporaneous  settle- 
ment of  Virginia, — what  has  resulted  from  the  planting  upon  this 
continent  of  two  or  three  slender  colonies  from  the  mother  coun- 
try ?  Gentlemen,  the  great  epitaph  commemorative  of  the  char- 
acter and  the  worth,  the  discoveries  and  gtory,  of  Columbus,  was, 
7 


98  DANIEL   WEBSTER. 

that  he  had  given  a  new  world  to  the  crowns  of  Castile  and  Aragon. 
Gentlemen,  this  is  a  great  mistake.  It  does  not  come  up  at  all 
to  the  great  merits  of  Columbus.  He  gave  the  territory  of  the 
southern  hemisphere  to  the  crowns  of  Castile  and  Aragon ;  but  as 
a  place  for  the  plantation  of  colonies,  as  a  place  for  the  habita- 
tion of  men,  as  a  place  to  which  laws  and  religion  and  manners 
and  science  were  to  be  transferred,  as  a  place  in  which  the 
creatures  of  God  should  multiply  and  fill  the  earth,  under  friendly 
skies  and  with  religious  hearts,  he  gave  it  to  the  whole  world,  he 
gave  it  to  universal  man  !  From  this  seminal  principle,  and  from 
a  handful,  —  a  hundred  saints,  blessed  of  God  and  ever  honored 
of  men,  landed  on  the  shores  of  Plymouth,  and  elsewhere  along 
the  coast,  united,  as  I  have  said  already  more  than  once,  in  the 
process  of  time,  with  the  settlement  at  Jamestown, — has  sprung 
this  great  people  of  which  we  are  a  portion. 

I  do  not  reckon  myself  among  quite  the  oldest  of  the  land ; 
and  yet  it  so  happens  that  very  recently  I  recurred  to  an  exult- 
ing speech  or  oration  of  my  own,1  in  which  I  spoke  of  my  coun- 
try as  consisting  of  nine  millions  of  people.  I  could  hardly  per- 
suade myself,  that,  within  the  short  time  which  had  elapsed  since 
that  epoch,  our  population  had  doubled ;  and  that  at  the  present 
moment  there  does  exist  most  unquestionably  as  great  a  proba- 
bility of  its  continued  progress  in  the  same  ratio  as  has  ever 
existed  in  any  previous  time.  I  do  not  know  whose  imagination 
is  fertile  enough,  I  do  not  know  whose  conjectures,  I  may  almost 
say,  are  wild  enough,  to  tell  what  may  be  the  progress  of  wealth 
and  population  in  the  United  States  in  half  a  century  to  come. 
All  we  know  is,  here  is  a  people  of  from  seventeen  to  twenty  mil- 
lions, intelligent,  educated,  freeholders,  freemen,  republicans,  pos- 
sessed of  all  the  means  of  modern  improvement,  modern  science, 
arts,  literature,  with  the  world  before  them  !  There  is  nothing 
to  check  them  till  they  touch  the  shores  of  the  Pacific,2  and  then, 

1  Oration  on  the  First  Settlement  of  New  England,  Dec.  22,  1820. 

2  Five  years  later,  gold  was  discovered  in  California,  and  the  first  great 
movement  of  settlers  towards  the  Pacific  coast  was  begun. 


THE  LANDING  AT  PLYMOUTH.  99 

they  are  so  much  accustomed  to  water,  that  that's  a  facility  and 
no  obstruction  ! 

So  much,  gentlemen,  for  this  branch  of  the  English  race.  But 
what  has  happened,  meanwhile,  to  England  herself,  since  the 
period  of  the  departure  of  the  Puritans  from  the  coast  of  Lin- 
colnshire, from  the  English  Boston  ?  Gentlemen,  in  speaking  of 
the  progress  of  English  power,  of  English  dominion  and  author- 
ity, from  that  period  to  the  present,  I  shall  be  understood,  of 
course,  as  neither  entering  into  any  defense,  or  any  accusation, 
of  the  policy  which  has  conducted  her  to  her  present  state.  As 
to  the  justice  of  her  wars,  the  necessity  of  her  conquests,  the  pro- 
priety of  those  acts  by  which  she  has  taken  possession  of  so  great 
a  portion  of  the  globe,  it  is  not  the  business  of  the  present  occa- 
sion to  inquire.  Neque  teneo,  neque  refello.1  But  I  speak  of 
them,  or  intend  to  speak  of  them,  as  facts  of  the  most  extraordi- 
nary character,  unequaled  in  the  history  of  any  nation  on  the 
globe,  and  the  consequences  of  which  may  and  must  reach 
through  a  thousand  generations.  The  Puritans  left  England  in 
the  reign  of  James  I.  England  herself  had  then  become  some- 
what settled  and  established  in  the  Protestant  faith,  and  in  the 
quiet  enjoyment  of  property,  by  the  previous  energetic,  long, 
and  prosperous  reign  of  Elizabeth.  Her  successor  was  James 
VI.  of  Scotland,  now  become  James  I.  of  England;  and  here 
was  a  union  of  the  crowns,  but  not  of  the  kingdoms,  —  a  very 
important  distinction.  Ireland  was  held  by  a  military  power; 
and  one  cannot  but  see  that  at  that  day,  whatever  may  be 
true  or  untrue  in  more  recent  periods  of  her  history,  Ireland 
was  held  by  England  by  the  two  great  potencies, — the  power  of 
the  sword  and  the  power  of  confiscation.  In  other  respects, 
England  was  nothing  like  the  England  which  we  now  behold. 
Her  foreign  possessions  were  quite  inconsiderable.  She  had  some 
hold  on  the  West  India  Islands ;  she  had  Acadia,  or  Nova  Scotia, 
which  King  James  granted,  by  wholesale,  for  the  endowment  of 
the  knights  whom  he  created  by  hundreds.  And  what  has  been 
1  I  neither  support  nor  confute. 


ioo  DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

her  progress  ?  Did  she  then  possess  Gibraltar,  the  key  to  the 
Mediterranean  ?  Did  she  possess  a  port  in  the  Mediterranean  ? 
Was  Malta  hers  ?  Were  the  Ionian  Islands  hers  ?  Was  the 
southern  extremity  of  Africa,  was  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  hers  ? 
Were  the  whole  of  her  vast  possessions  in  India  hers  ?  Was  her 
great  Australian  empire  hers  ?  While  that  branch  of  her  popula- 
tion which  followed  the  western  star,  and  under  its  guidance 
committed  itself  to  the  duty  of  settling,  fertilizing,  and  peopling 
an  unknown  wilderness  in  the  West,  were  pursuing  their  destinies, 
other  causes,  providential  doubtless,  were  leading  English  power 
eastward  and  southward,  in  consequence  and  by  means  of  her 
naval  prowess  and  the  extent  of  her  commerce,  until  in  our  day 
we  have  seen  that  within  the  Mediterranean,  on  the  western  coast 
and  at  the  southern  extremity  of  Africa,  in  Arabia,  in  hither 
India  and  farther  India,  she  has  a  population  ten  times  as  great 
as  that  of  the  British  Isles  two  centuries  ago.  And  recently,  as 
we  have  witnessed,  —  I  will  not  say  with  how  much  truth  and 
justice,  policy  or  impolicy;  I  do  not  speak  at  all  to  the  morality 
of  the  action,  I  only  speak  to  \hefact, —  she  has  found  admission 
into  China,  and  has  carried  the  Christian  religion  and  the  Prot- 
estant faith  to  the  doors  of  three  hundred  millions  of  people.1 

It  has  been  said  that  whosoever  would  see  the  Eastern  world 
before  it  turns  into  a  Western  world,  must  make  his  visit  soon, 
because  steamboats  and  omnibuses,  commerce,  and  all  the  arts  of 
Europe,  are  extending  themselves  from  Egypt  to  Suez,  from  Suez 
to  the  Indian  seas,  and  from  the  Indian  seas  all  over  the  explored 
regions  of  the  still  farther  East. 

Now,  gentlemen,  I  do  not  know  what  practical  views,  or  what 
practical  results,  may  take  place  from  this  great  expansion  of  the 
power  of  the  two  branches  of  Old  England.  It  is  not  for  me  to 
say.  I  only  can  see,  that  on  this  continent  all  is  to  be  Anglo- 
American,  from  Plymouth  Rock  to  the  Pacific  seas,  from  the 

l  The  war  between  China  and  Great  Britain,  known  as  the  "  opium  war," 
which  began  in  1834,  was  ended  by  the  treaty  of  Aug.  26,  1842.  By  the 
conditions  of  this  treaty,  Hong-Kong  was  ceded  to  the  British. 


THE  LANDING  AT  PLYMOUTH.  101 

north  pole  to  California.1  That  is  certain ;  and  in  the  Eastern 
world  I  only  see  that  you  can  hardly  place  a  finger  on  a  map  of 
the  world,  and  be  an  inch  from  an  English  settlement. 

Gentlemen,  if  there  be  anything  in  the  supremacy  of  races,  the 
experiment  now  in  progress  will  develop  it.  If  there  fre  any  truth 
in  the  idea  that  those  who  issued  from  the  great  Caucasian  foun- 
tain, and  spread  over  Europe,  are  to  react  on  India  and  on  Asia, 
and  to  act  on  the  whole  Western  world,  it  may  not  be  for  us,  nor 
our  children,  nor  our  grandchildren,  to  see  it,  but  it  will  be  for 
our  descendants  of  some  generation  to  see  the  extent  of  that 
progress  and  dominion  of  the  favored  races. 

For  myself,  I  believe  there  is  no  limit  fit  to  be  assigned  to  it 
by  the  human  mind,  because  I  find  at  work  everywhere,  on  both 
sides  of  the  Atlantic,  under  various  forms  and  degrees  of  restric- 
tion on  the  one  hand,  and  under  various  degrees  of  motive  and 
stimulus  on  the  other  hand,  in  these  branches  of  a  common  race, 
the  great  principle  of  the  freedom  of  human  thought  and  the  re- 
spectability of  individual  character.  I  find  everywhere  an  eleva- 
tion of  the  character  of  man  as  man,  an  elevation  of  the  individual 
as  a  component  part  of  society.  I  find  everywhere  a  rebuke  of 
the  idea  that  the  many  are  made  for  the  few,  or  that  govern- 
ment is  anything  but  an  agency  for  mankind.  ,  And  I  care  not 
beneath  what  zone,  frozen,  temperate,  or  tortiol;!  jJ  care  not  ot 
what  complexion,  white  or  brown ;  I  care  •  not  ijnder  what  cir- 
cumstances of  climate  or  cultivation,  —  if,  J.  eaft  :find:  a  'race  cf 
men  on  an  inhabitable  spot  of  earth  whose  general  sentiment  it 
is,  and  whose  general  feeling  it  is,  that  government  is  made  for 
man, — man  as  a  religious,  moral,  and  social  being, — and  not 
man  for  government,  there  I  know  that  I  shall  find  prosperity  and 
happiness. 

1  It  is  well  to  remember,  that,  when  these  words  were  spoken,  California 
was  a  province  of  Mexico,  inhabited  only  by  Indians  and  a  few  people  of 
Spanish  descent. 


ECLECTIC    ENGLISH    CLASSICS 


THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR 
SELF-RELIANCE 
COMPENSATION 


BY 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 


NEW  YORK  • :  •  CINCINNATI  • :  •  CHICAGO 

AMERICAN    BOOK    COMPANY 


Copyright,  1893,  by 
AMERICAN  BOOK  COMPANY. 


EM.  AMER.  SCH, 


The  three  essays  of  Emerson  included  in  this  volume  are  printed 
by  permission  of,  and  by  special  arrangement  with,  Messrs.  Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Company,  the  authorized  publishers  of  Mr.  Emerson's  works. 


INTRODUCTION. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON,  poet,  essayist,  and  philosopher,  was 
born  in  Boston,  May  25,  1803.  He  was  the  second  of  five  sons 
of  the  Rev.  William  Emerson,  minister  of  the  First  (Congrega- 
tional) Church  in  Boston.  His  mother  was  Ruth  Haskins,  a 
woman  of  strong  character  and  superior  mental  abilities.  He 
had  a  minister  for  an  ancestor  for  eight  generations  back,  either 
on  the  paternal  or  the  maternal  side.  Thus  he  inherited  his  spir- 
itual and  intellectual  tendencies  from  a  long  line  of  distinguished 
progenitors.  His  aunt,  Mary  Moody  Emerson,  a  woman  of  rare 
intellectual  attainments,  was  one  of  his  early  companions  and  ex- 
erted a  remarkable  influence  over  his  development. 

Emerson  began  his  studies  at  the  public  grammar  school  at 
the  age  of  eight,  and  four  years  later  he  attended  the  Latin 
School.  In  1 8 1 7  he  entered  Harvard.  He  was  not  distinguished 
for  proficiency  in  the  studies  of  the  curriculum,  but  he  was  superior 
to  most  of  his  classmates  in  his  knowledge  of  general  literature. 
He  was  especially  interested  in  the  study  of  Greek  and  history, 
and  much  of  his  time  was  spent  in  the  library.  He  graduated 
in  1821. 

For  five  years  after  leaving  college  Emerson  taught  school. 
In  1823  he  began  to  study  for  the  ministry  under  Dr.  Channing. 
He  was  "approbated  to  preach"  in  1826  by  the  Middlesex 

5 


6  IN  TR  OD  UC  TION. 

Association  of  Ministers,  but  owing  to  ill  health  he  did  not  enter 
immediately  upon  his  public  duties,  but  spent  the  following  winter 
in  Florida.  On  his  return  from  the  South  he  preached  in  New 
Bedford,  Northampton,  Concord,  and  Boston.  On  March  u, 
1829,  he  was  ordained  as  a  colleague  of  the  Rev.  Henry  Ware, 
minister  of  the  Second  (Congregational  Unitarian)  Church  in 
Boston.  Eighteen  months  later,  Dr.  Ware  resigned  and  the 
pastoral  duties  fell  upon  Emerson. 

In  September,  1829,  he  was  married  to  Miss  Ellen  Louisa 
Tucker.  Their  married  life  was  brief,  as  Mrs.  Emerson  died  of 
consumption  in  February,  1832. 

Emerson  soon  became  troubled  with  doubts  regarding  his 
duties  as  a  minister,  and  as  sincerity  was  always  his  guiding  star, 
he  felt  it  his  duty  to  proclaim  these  doubts  to  his  congregation. 
Accordingly  in  September,  1832,  he  delivered  a  sermon  on  the 
Lord's  Supper,  in  which  he  stated  his  scruples  against  adminis- 
tering that  rite.  As  he  and  his  congregation  differed  radically 
in  these  views,  he  resigned  his  pastorate  and  retired  from  public 
preaching. 

In  1833  he  visited  Europe  for  the  first  time.  There  he  met 
Coleridge,  Wordsworth,  and  Carlyle,  and  formed  with  the  last- 
named  a  lifelong  friendship  which  resulted  in  their  famous 
correspondence. 

In  the  winter  of  1833-34  he  returned  to  the  United  States  and 
began  his  career  as  a  lecturer.  At  this  period  of  his  life  he  lived 
with  Dr.  Ripley  in  the  "  Old  Manse,"  afterwards  made  famous 
by  Hawthorne.  The  first  lectures  he  delivered  were  "  Water " 
and  "  The  Relation  of  Man  to  the  Globe."  These  were  followed 
by  three  lectures  on  his  European  tour. 

In  1834  he  began  his  series  of  biographical  lectures  on  Michael 


INTRODUCTION.  ^ 

Angelo,  Milton,  Luther,  George  Fox,  and  Edmund  Burke. 
Those  on  Michael  Angelo  and  George  Fox  were  published  later 
in  the  "  North  American  Review." 

In  September,  1835,  ne  was  married  to  Miss  Lydia  Jackson 
of  Plymouth,  Mass.  They  went  to  live  in  "  the  plain,  square, 
wooden  house,"  in  Concord,  which  was  Emerson's  home  for  the 
rest  of  his  life. 

During  the  next  three  winters  Emerson  delivered  three  courses 
of  lectures  in  Boston :  ten  on  English  literature,  in  1835  ;  twelve 
on  the  philosophy  of  history,  in  1836  ;  and  ten  on  human  culture, 
in  1837. 

In  1836  he  wrote  the  "Concord  Hymn"  for  the  dedication 
ceremonies  at  the  monument  raised  in  honor  of  the  Concord  fight. 
It  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  poems  he  has  written. 

In  1836  his  first  volume,  "  Nature," — a  philosophic  essay  full 
of  poetic  thoughts,  —  was  published  anonymously.  It  was  quite 
different  from  anything  Emerson  had  written  before,  and  it  did 
not  meet  with  a  favorable  reception.  It  was  too  vague  for  pop- 
ular comprehension,  and  the  time  was  not  ripe  for  its  full  appre- 
ciation. It  took  five  years  to  sell  five  hundred  copies  of  it  in  the 
United  States. 

In  1836  the  Symposium,  or  Transcendental  Club,  was  organ- 
ized, and  Emerson  became  an  active  member.  Among  its  other 
members  were  James  Freeman  Clarke,  Theodore  Parker,  Bronson 
Alcott,  Elizabeth  P.  Peabody,  and  Margaret  Fuller.  They  dis- 
cussed, besides  a  variety  of  other  topics,  religious  justice,  truth, 
mysticism,  and  the  development  of  American  genius. 

From  the  last-named  subject  Emerson  probably  received  the 
impulse  which  prompted  him  in  1837  to  deliver  his  oration 
entitled  "  The  American  Scholar "  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa 


8  INTRODUCTION. 

Society  at  Cambridge.  The  address  was  received  by  the  audi- 
ence with  the  utmost  enthusiasm  and  approval. 

On  July  24,  1838,  Emerson  delivered  an  oration  on  literary 
ethics  before  the  literary  societies  at  Dartmouth  College. 

In  the  winter  of  1838-39  he  gave  a  course  of  ten  lectures, — 
"  The  Doctrine  of  the  Soul,"  "  Home,"  "  The  School,"  "  Love," 
"Genius,"  "The  Protest,"  "Tragedy,"  "Comedy,"  "Duty," 
"  Demonology." 

His  next  address  was  "  The  Method  of  Nature,"  delivered  be- 
fore the  Society  of  the  Adelphi  in  Waterville,  Me.,  Aug.  n,  1841. 
Other  addresses  delivered  about  this  time  were  "  Man,  the  Re- 
former," "Lecture  on  the  Times,"  "The  Transcendentalist,"  and 
"The  Conservative." 

In  July,  1840,  a  transcendental  magazine  called  "The  Dial" 
began  its  career  under  the  editorship  of  Margaret  Fuller.  Emer- 
son soon  succeeded  her  as  editor,  and  he  contributed  numerous 
articles  to  the  paper.  It  was  not  a  financial  success,  and  was 
abandoned  in  1844. 

In  1841  Emerson's  first  volume  of  collected  essays  was  pub- 
lished. This  volume  now  includes  the  following  essays :  "  His- 
tory," "  Self-Reliance,"  "  Compensation,"  "  Spiritual  Laws," 
"Love,"  "Friendship,"  "Prudence,"  "Heroism,"  "The  Over- 
Soul,"  "Circles,"  "Intellect,"  "Art,"  "The  Young  American." 
The  last  named  was  not  published  till  1844,  but  it  now  forms 
part  of  the  "  First  Series  of  Essays." 

In  February,  1842,  Emerson  wrote  the  pathetic  "Threnody," 
on  the  death  of  his  dearly  beloved  son.  In  1844  he  delivered, 
in  Concord,  an  address  on  the  emancipation  of  the  negroes  in 
the  British  West  Indies. 

In  1844  the  "Second  Series  of  Essays"  appeared.    It  includes : 


IN  TROD  UC  TION.  9 

"The  Poet,"  "Experience,"  "Character,"  "Manners,"  "Gifts," 
"  Nature,"  "  Politics,"  "  Nominalist  and  Realist,"  and  "  New 
England  Reformers." 

In  1847  Emerson's  first  volume  of  poems  was  published. 
This  was  chiefly  a  collection  of  poems  which  had  appeared  be- 
fore, most  of  them  in  "  The  Dial." 

In  October,  1847,  ne  sailed  for  Europe  on  an  English  lecture 
tour.  Many  of  the  lectures  he  delivered  on  this  trip  were  pub- 
lished in  a  volume,  "  Representative  Men,"  which  appeared  in 
1850.  It  consists  of  a  series  of  character  sketches  or  mental 
portraits,  each  designed  to  represent  a  class.  The  essays  are : 
"Lives  of  Great  Men;"  "Plato,  or  the  Philosopher;"  "Plato, 
New  Readings;"  "  Swedenborg,  or  the  Mystic;"  "Montaigne, 
or  the  Skeptic;"  "Shakespeare,  or  the  Poet;"  "Napoleon,  or 
the  Man  of  the  World ;"  "  Goethe,  or  the  Writer." 

In  1849  he  returned  to  the  United  States.  In  1850  he 
signed  the  call  for  the  first  Woman's  Rights  Convention.  In 
1852,  conjointly  with  James  Freeman  Clarke  and  William 
Ellery  Channing,  he  published  the  "  Memoirs  of  Margaret 
Fuller  Ossoli." 

In  January,  1855,  he  gave  one  of  the  lectures  in  a  course  of 
Antislavery  Addresses,  delivered  in  Boston,  and  in  the  same 
year  he  delivered  an  address  before  the  Antislavery  Party  in  New 
York.  The  plan  he  proposed  was  to  buy  the  slaves  from  the 
owners  and  then  liberate  them. 

"  English  Traits,"  the  result  of  his  observations  in  England, 
was  published  in  1856.  In  November,  1857,  the  "Atlantic 
Monthly  "  began  its  career  in  Boston  with  James  Russell  Lowell 
as  editor.  Many  of  the  former  contributors  of  "  The  Dial " 
wrote  for  this  paper,  among  them  Emerson,  who  contributed  to 


10 


IN  TROD  UC  TION. 


it  some  of  his  best  poems.  The  "  Essay  on  Persian  Poetry  "  was 
published  in  this  paper  in  1858. 

"  The  Conduct  of  Life  "  appeared  in  1860.  It  contains  essays 
on  "  Fate,"  "  Power,"  "  Wealth,"  "  Culture,"  "  Manners,"  "  Be- 
havior," "  Worship,"  "  Beauty,"  "  Illusions,"  "  Considerations  by 
the  Way."  When  we  consider  that  twenty-five  hundred  copies 
of  this  book  were  sold  in  a  few  days  we  perceive  how  much 
Emerson  had  grown  in  favor  in  the  twenty  years  since  the  publi- 
cation of  his  first  volume. 

About  this  time  a  new  paper  called  "  The  Dial "  was  started 
in  Cincinnati,  for  which  Emerson  wrote  several  articles.  In  1862 
he  delivered  an  address  at  Boston  on  the  Emancipation  Procla- 
mation. The  "  Boston  Hymn"  was  read  by  him  in  Music  Hall, 
Jan.  i,  1863. 

"  Voluntaries "  was  published  in  the  "Atlantic  Monthly  "  in 
1863,  and  "Saadi"  in  1864,  "My  Garden"  in  1866,  and  "Ter- 
minus" in  1867.  These  poems  and  others  were  collected  in 
1867  in  a  volume  entitled  "  May  Day  and  Other  Pieces." 

In  1866  Emerson  received  the  degree  of  LL.D.  from  Har- 
vard University,  and  in  1867  he  was  elected  to  their  board  of 
overseers.  In  the  same  year  he  delivered  an  oration  on  the 
Progress  of  Culture  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  of  Cam- 
bridge. This  year  practically  marked  the  close  of  his  literary 
career.  Most  of  the  works  of  note  which  appeared  at  a  later 
date  were  published  from  manuscript  written  by  him  at  an  ear- 
lier period. 

In  1868-70  he  delivered  a  series  of  lectures  at  Harvard  Uni- 
versity on  the  "  Natural  History  of  the  Intellect."  "  Society  and 
Solitude,"  a  new  collection  of  essays,  was  published  in  1870.  The 
essays  include :  "  Society  and  Solitude,"  "  Civilization,"  "Art," 


IN  TROD  UC  TION.  1 1 

• 

"  Eloquence,"  "  Domestic  Life,"  "  Fanning,"  "  Weeks  and 
Days,"  "  Books,"  "  Clubs,"  "  Courage,"  "  Success,"  "  Old  Age." 

In  1871,  accompanied  by  his  daughter  Edith,  he  made  a 
trip  to  California.  In  July,  1872,  his  house  caught  fire.  The 
shock  he  received  on  this  occasion  greatly  hastened  his  mental 
decline.  He  was  ^induced  to  go  to  Europe  for  his  health,  and 
on  his  return  he  found  his  house  perfectly  restored  to  its  for- 
mer condition  by  friends  who  had  paid  for  it  by  voluntary 
subscriptions. 

In  December,  1874,  he  edited  "Parnassus,"  a  collection  of 
poems  by  British  and  American  authors.  In  the  same  year 
"  Letters  and  Social  Aims  "  appeared,  containing  the  following 
essays :  "  Poetry  and  Imagination,"  "  Social  Aims,"  "  Elo- 
quence," "Resources,"  "The  Comic,"  "Quotation  and  Origi- 
nality," "  Progress  of  Culture,"  "  Persian  Poetry,"  "  Inspiration," 
"  Greatness,"  "  Immortality." 

On  March  30,  1878,  he  delivered  a  lecture  in  the  Old  South 
Church,  Boston,  on  the  "Fortune  of  the  Republic."  "The 
Sovereignty  of  Ethics  "  was  published  in  the  "  North  American 
Review"  in  1878.  In  May,  1879,  he  read  his  address  on  "The 
Preacher"  in  Divinity  College,  Harvard.  In  1881  he  read  a 
paper  on  Carlyle  before  the  Massachusetts  Historical  Society. 
His  essay  on  "  Superlatives "  appeared  in  the  "  Century "  for 
February,  1882. 

In  April,  1882,  Emerson  caught  a  severe  cold,  which  developed 
into  pneumonia,  of  which  he  died  on  April  27.  He  was  buried 
in  Concord  near  the  graves  of  Hawthorne  and  Thoreau. 

In  addition  to  many  short  poems  hitherto  unpublished,  two 
volumes  of  essays,  "  Miscellanies  "  and  "  Biographical  Sketches," 
have  appeared  since  his  death. 


12  INTRODUC  TION. 

To  understand  Emerson's  works,  we  must  inquire  into  his  re- 
ligious belief,  since  it  permeates  and  colors  all  his  writings.  He 
belongs  to  the  school  of  transcendentalism,  but  this  word  admits 
of  many  interpretations.  Emerson  himself  defines  it  as  "  modern 
idealism."  "The  materialist,"  he  tells  us,  "insists  on  facts,  on 
history,  on  the  force  of  circumstances  and  the  animal  wants  of 
man ;  the  idealist,  on  the  power  of  Thought  and  of  Will,  on  in- 
spiration, on  miracle,  on  individual  culture.  .  .  .  The  idealist 
takes  his  departure  from  his  consciousness  and  reckons  the  world 
an  appearance.  .  .  .  His  thought,  —  that  is  the  universe." 

His  precise  attitude  as  to  the  conception  of  the  Deity  is  diffi- 
cult to  define.  He  declares  in  one  of  his  essays  that  "  there  is  a 
sublime  and  friendly  destiny  by  which  the  human  race  is  guided 
—  the  race  never  dying,  the  individual  never  spared  —  to  results 
affecting  masses  and  ages." 

Perhaps  the  following  passage  from  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 
will  give  us  as  good  a  conception  as  any,  of  Emerson's  religious 
attitude : 

"  His  creed  was  a  brief  one,  but  he  carried  it  everywhere  with 
him.  In  all  he  did,  in  all  he  said,  and,  so  far  as  all  outward 
signs  could  show,  in  all  his  thoughts,  the  indwelling  Spirit  was 
his  light  and  guide ;  through  all  nature  he  looked  up  to  nature's 
God  ;  and  if  he  did  not  worship  the  '  man  Christ  Jesus '  as  the 
churches  of  Christendom  have  done,  he  followed  his  footsteps 
so  nearly  that  our  good  Methodist,  Father  Taylor,  spoke  of  him 
as  more  like  Christ  than  any  man  he  had  known." 

But,  whatever  we  may  think  of  his  theological  views,  we  can- 
not fail  to  admire  his  ethics.  He  aimed  to  be  a  teacher  of  man, 
a  reformer  of  reformers.  He  preached  by  life  as  well  as  by  pen 
a  new  code  of  morals.  He  was  an  idealist,  and  he  insisted  on 


IN  TROD  UC  TION.  1 3 

the  application  of  idealism  to  the  everyday  matters  of  life.  His 
was  a  courageous  and  hopeful  nature.  He  had  unbounded  con- 
fidence in  the  power  for  good  in  the  human  soul,  and  he  preached 
untiringly  the  worth  of  the  moral  sentiment.  He  explored  every 
province  of  human  life  and  thought ;  he  lent  his  voice  in  behalf 
of  all  great  public  measures ;  and  he  never  lost  an  opportunity 
to  prove  himself  a  good  citizen.  His  mission  in  life  was  to  in- 
spire others,  to  make  life  nobler,  purer,  loftier. 

There  is,  perhaps,  no  writer  regarding  whom  there  is  less  con- 
sensus of  opinion  than  of  Emerson.  The  judgments  formed  of 
him  are  as  various  as  the  habits  of  thought  in  the  critics.  We 
may  regard  him  in  three  phases :  Emerson  the  essayist,  Emerson 
the  poet,  and  Emerson  the  philosopher  and  moral  leader.  In  all 
these  phases  we  find  the  most  diverse  opinions  and  criticisms 
regarding  him. 

Some  say  there  never  before  was  such  a  writer,  poet,  sage ; 
others  can  find  no  sense  in  his  writings  and  pronounce  them 
mere  empty  words.  One  critic  accords  him  a  high  place  as  a 
philosopher,  but  characterizes  his  poetry  as  inartistic  and  harsh ; 
another  ranks  him  among  the  greatest  poets,  and  says  of  him, 
"  The  great  poets  addressed  him  as  one  of  themselves ;  he  was 
not  of  their  audience,  but  of  their  choir;"  while  a  third  declares 
tfyat  his  poetry  is  as  devoid  of  life  as  his  philosophy  of  wisdom. 
We  give  a  few  of  these  criticisms  by  men  whose  opinions  are 
valued. 

First  let  us  hear  what  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  says : — 

"The  poet  in  Emerson  never  accurately  differentiated  itself 
from  the  philosopher.  .  .  .  Emerson  is  so  essentially  a  poet  that 
whole  pages  of  his  are  like  so  many  litanies  of  alternating  chants 
and  recitations.  His  thoughts  slip  on  and  off  their  light  rhythmic 


14  INTR  OD  UC  TION. 

robes  just  as  the  mood  takes  him.  Many  of  the  metrical  pre- 
ludes to  his  lectures  are  a  versified  and  condensed  abstract  of  the 
leading  doctrine  of  the  discourse.  Emerson  was  not  only  a  poet, 
but  a  very  remarkable  one.  .  .  .  He  was  a  man  of  intuition,  of 
insight,  a  seer,  a  poet  with  a  tendency  to  mysticism  which  renders 
him  sometimes  obscure  and  once  in  a  while  almost,  if  not  quite, 
unintelligible.  He  made  desperate  work  now  and  then  with 
rhyme  and  rhythm,  showing  that  though  a  born  poet  he  was  not 
a  born  singer.  .  .  .  After  all  our  criticisms  we  have  to  recognize 
that  there  is  a  charm  in  his  poems  which  cannot  be  defined  any 
more  than  the  fragrance  of  a  rose  or  a  hyacinth.  ...  No  man 
would  accuse  Emerson  of  parsimony  of  ideas.  He  crams  his 
pages  with  the  very  marrow  of  his  thought.  But  in  weighing 
out  a  lecture  he  was  as  punctilious  as  Portia  about  the  pound  of 
flesh.  When  the  lecture  had  served  its  purpose  it  came  before 
the  public  in  the  shape  of  an  essay,  but  the  essay  never  lost  the 
character  it  borrowed  from  the  conditions  under  which  it  was 
delivered ;  it  was  a  lay  sermon." 

Now  let  us  listen  to  Matthew  Arnold :  — 

"  And,  in  truth,  one  of  the  legitimate  poets,  Emerson,  in  my 
opinion,  is  not.  His  poetry  is  interesting ;  it  makes  one  think, 
but  it  is  not  the  poetry  of  one  of  the  born  poets.  ...  I  do  not, 
then,  place  Emerson  among  the  great  poets.  But  I  go  farther 
and  say  that  I  do  not  place  him  among  the  great  writers,  the 
great  men  of  letters.  .  .  .  Emerson  has  passages  of  noble  and 
pathetic  eloquence;  he  has  passages  of  shrewd  and  felicitous 
wit ;  he  has  crisp  epigram  ;  he  has  passages  of  exquisitely  touched 
observation  of  nature.  Yet  he  is  not  a  great  writer ;  his  style 
has  not  the  requisite  wholeness  of  good  tissue.  .  .  .  Emerson 
cannot,  I  think,  be  called  with  justice  a  great  philosophical 


INTRODUCTION.  15 

writer.  He  cannot  build ;  his  arrangement  of  philosophical  ideas 
has  no  progress  in  it  —  no  evolution ;  he  does  not  construct  a 
philosophy." 

Lastly,  the  Rev.  C.  A.  Bartol,  criticising  the  critic,  says :  — 
"  Mr.  Arnold,  who  has  forgot  the  dreams  and  got  so  bravely 
over  the  supposed  illusions  of  his  youth,  putting  for  them  the 
depressing  doubts  and  hopeless  speculations  of  his  age,  while  he 
prizes  Emerson's  spiritual  substance,  eschews  as  not  good  tissue 
his  literary  style.  Moses,  David,  Paul,  James,  and  Jesus,  as 
reported  by  his  amanuenses,  under  this  self-confident  critic's 
cleaver,  must  lose  their  heads  as  writers  and  authors  on  the  same 
block.  They,  too,  are  no  weavers  of  words  whose  work  is  figured 
by  the  loom ;  but  brief,  sententious,  pictorial,  ejaculatory,  a 
quiver  full  of  arrows  being  rather  their  type.  Is  there  not  a  good 
prophetic  and  oracular  as  well  as  a  didactic  or  dialectic  style?  " 

So  we  see  that  it  is  not  safe  to  trust  the  opinion  of  any  one 
critic.  It  is  not  always  easy  to  understand  Emerson ;  his  sen- 
tences are  full  of  hidden  meaning  which  cannot  be  detected  at  a 
glance ;  they  must  be  read  and  re-read  to  perceive  the  full  drift 
of  the  thought ;  but  the  thought  in  its  fullness  well  repays  us  for 
the  trouble.  With  unbiased  mind  and  earnest  purpose  we  must 
go  to  the  storehouse  of  Emerson's  works,  take  from  thence  all 
the  material  we  can  gather,  and  with  this  as  the  basis,  each 
according  to  his  understanding,  form  his  own  judgment. 

"The  American  Scholar"  has  been  well  called  our  literary 
declaration  of  independence.  In  it  Emerson  deplores  the  ten- 
dencies of  Americans  to  devote  their  energies  exclusively  in  the 
direction  of  mechanical  skill,  and  he  fearlessly  accuses  them  of 
subserviency  to  European  taste  and  style. 


1 6  INTR  OD  UC  TION. 

In  treating  of  the  education  of  the  scholar,  he  recognizes  three 
great  influences,  —  Nature,  the  Past  with  its  accumulation  of 
books,  and  Action. 

Nature  he  regards  as  the  most  important  influence.  "  Know 
thyself  "  and  "  Study  nature  "  are  to  him  as  one  maxim.  The 
classifying  instinct  is  one  of  the  first  to  be  developed ;  we  must 
learn  to  see  that  many  things  are  governed  by  one  law. 

In  speaking  of  the  influence  of  the  past,  he  dwells  chiefly  on 
books.  The  danger,  he  tells  us,  is  in  placing  too  much  faith  in 
books.  "  Instead  of  Man  Thinking  we  have  the  bookworm. 
Books  are  the  best  of  things,  well  used;  abused,  among  the 
worst." 

Action,  though  subordinate  to  the  other  influences,  still  is  an 
essential  factor  in  education.  "It  is  the  raw  material  out  of 
which  the  intellect  molds  her  splendid  product."  He  emphasizes 
the  dignity  and  necessity  of  labor,  and  spurns  the  idea  that  the 
scholar  must  withdraw  from  the  practical  issues  of  life.  Having 
spoken  of  the  scholar's  education,  he  eloquently  describes  his 
duties,  which,  he  tells  us,  are  all  included  in  self-trust.  If  we 
would  be  true  to  ourselves,  we  must  never  yield  to  the  popular 
cry,  but  manfully  declare  our  independence,  cost  what  it  may, 
and  hold  to  our  belief  though  the  whole  world  decry  it. 

Lastly,  he  makes  special  application  of  these  principles  to  the 
American  Scholar.  He  rejoices  in  the  fact  that  people  are  be- 
ginning to  be  interested  in  near  and  common  things  instead  of  in 
the  "  doings  in  Italy  and  Arabia."  "  What  would  we  really  know 
the  meaning  of  —  the  meal  in  the  firkin,  the  milk  in  the  pan,  the 
ballad  in  the  street."  And  he  closes  in  that  hopeful  strain,  so 
characteristic  of  Emerson,  by  expressing  the  utmost  faith  and 
confidence  in  the  American  Scholar. 


IN  TROD  UC  TION.  1 7 

Perhaps  no  other  work  of  Emerson's  has  been  less  criticised 
or  more  universally  approved.  James  Russell  Lowell,  in  speak- 
ing of  its  delivery,  says :  "  It  was  an  event  without  any  former 
parallel  in  our  literary  annals,  a  scene  to  be  always  treasured  in 
the  memory  for  its  picturesqueness  and  its  inspiration.  What 
crowded  and  breathless  aisles,  what  windows  clustering  with 
eager  heads,  what  enthusiasm  of  approval,  what  grim  silence  of 
foregone  dissent!" 

In  this  oration  are  to  be  found  the  germs  of  those  thoughts 
and  principles  which  animate  all  the  author's  later  works, — self- 
trust,  self-culture,  the  dignity  of  labor,  harmony  and  analogy  in 
nature,  intellectual  and  moral  independence.  Emerson  has  been 
accused  of  burying  his  thoughts  so  deep  that  common  seekers 
cannot  find  them ;  but  in  this  essay,  at  least,  few  passages  can 
be  found  which  are  not  perfectly  intelligible.  Some  of  them, 
indeed,  are  so  exquisitely  expressed  as  to  constitute  veritable 
prose  poems.  The  address,  like  all  of  Emerson's  works,  is  full 
of  quotations  and  allusions ;  yet  Emerson  is  essentially  original. 
He  is  the  champion  of  mental  freedom,  and  continually  urges 
others  to  free  themselves  from  the  fetters  of  conventionality. 

He  practiced  what  he  preached  in  this  oration,  and  set  the 
example   of  ignoring   European    methods   and  manners.      The 
humblebee  and  the  pine  tree  rather  than  the  nightingale  and  the ' 
asphodel  furnished  his  models. 

Let  us  rejoice  that  Emerson  no  longer  need  complain  of  our 
subserviency  to  European  taste.  Since  this  address  was  deliv- 
ered, we  have  had  a  host  of  original  writers,  —  Cooper,  Irving, 
Hawthorne,  Bryant,  Longfellow,  Whittier,  Lowell,  Holmes,  Whit- 
man, and  many  others.  The  whole  tendency  of  American  liter- 
ature has  changed.  As  with  one  impulse  it  has  grown  more 

2 


1 8  IN  TROD  UC  TION. 

original  and  more  American.  Emerson's  rich  and  vigorous  fresh- 
ness has  undoubtedly  proved  a  stimulant  to  his  contemporaries, 
and  to  him,  more  than  to  any  other,  we  are  indebted  for  the 
development  of  American  scholarship. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  explain  the  theme  of  "  Self -Reliance." 
The  title  is  self-explanatory.  It  is  the  doctrine  which  Emerson 
preaches  in  "  The  American  Scholar,"  reiterated  and  elaborated. 
When  we  read  there,  "  In  self -trust  all  the  virtues  are  compre- 
hended," we  strike  the  keynote  of  this  later  essay.  To  the  self- 
reliant  man  everything  is  possible ;  he  may  become  a  genius,  a 
leader  of  men,  but  without  this  one  virtue,  his  case  is  hopeless. 

Some  of  us,  perhaps,  cannot  agree  with  Emerson  when  he  tells 
us  it  is  right  to  ignore  many  of  the  ordinary  duties  of  life  for  the 
sake  of  maintaining  our  individuality ;  but  certain  it  is  that  con- 
formity to  the  conventionalities  of  society  stamps  out  from 
many  a  man  his  originality  and  individuality,  and  makes  of  him 
merely  one  of  a  mass  of  men.  Let  us  see  how  it  is  in  our  own 
case.  Suppose  some  one  took  enough  interest  in  you  or  me  to 
write  our  biography.  Would  it  not  read  somewhat  like  this? 

"  Mr. was  of  such  a  nationality  (Order).  He  belonged  to 

such  a  religious  sect  (Class).  He  followed  such  a  profession  or 
engaged  in  such  a  business  (Genus).  He  was  a  member  of  such 
a  club,  was  interested  in  such  a  movement,  etc.  (Species)."  These 
are  all  class  distinctions,  but  where,  we  ask,  is  the  attribute  that 
shows  his  individuality,  that  makes  him  himself  and  distinguishes 
him  from  his  companions  B  and  C  and  D?  Of  this,  alas!  most 
men's  lives  leave  no  record. 

In  times  of  revolution,  when  conventionalities  are  forcibly 
thrust  aside,  our  great  men  grow  up  like  mushrooms  in  a  night. 


IN  TROD  UCTION.  1 9 

So  we  find  in  our  own  history  that  at  no  other  time  did  our 
country  produce  so  many  great  men  as  during  the  Revolutionary 
period  and  the  period  of  the  Civil  War.  Must  we,  then,  wish  for 
war  and  turmoil,  or  shall  we  rather  believe  with  Emerson  that  if 
we  would  but  be  as  brave  as  he  would  have  us,  the  most  peaceful 
times  might  fill  our  records  with  the  achievements  of  men  who 
now  sink  into  unknown  graves? 

In  "  Compensation  "  we  strike  one  of  Emerson's  deeper  and 
more  philosophic  veins,  —  that  great  theory  of  retribution  on 
earth  which  makes  us  pause  and  hold  our  breath.  Is  it  indeed 
true  that  "  every  excess  causes  a  defect,  every  defect  an  excess?  " 
that  "for  everything  you  have  missed  you  have  gained  some- 
thing else,  and  for  everything  you  gain  you  lose  something?  " 
that  "  every  secret  is  told,  every  crime  is  punished,  every  virtue 
rewarded,  every  wrong  redressed,  in  silence  and  certainty?" 
The  universal  acceptation  of  this  doctrine  would  work  a  revolu- 
tion in  society :  for  would  not  the  wicked  man  fear  to  do  wrong 
if  he  knew  the  punishment  to  be  as  inevitable  as  the  laws  of 
nature,  and  not  dependent  upon  a  possible  detection  and  convic- 
tion by  the  judges  of  the  world  ?  And  where  would  be  the 
motive  for  his  crime  if  he  felt  that  he  already  possessed  his  full 
allotment  of  happiness,  and  that  for  everything  he  gained  in  one 
direction  he  would  lose  something  in  another?  And  would  not 
the  virtuous  man  be  encouraged  to  persist  all  the  more  in  his 
virtue  if  he  knew  that  for  every  sacrifice  he  made  there  would 
be  some  reward,  —  a  gain  in  character,  if  not  a  material  com- 
pensation ? 

But  the  doctrine  is  one  that  is  not  easily  learned.  To  be  well 
understood  it  must  be  carefully  taught  by  inspired  men,  by  men 


20  INTRODUCTION. 

like  Emerson  himself :  for  all  men  have  not  his  penetrating  eye ; 
they  cannot  see  below  the  surface,  and  so  long  as  the  wrongdoer 
succeeds  in  his  wrongdoing  and  the  wicked  man  is  rich  and  sur- 
rounded by  friends,  so  long  will  he  be  envied.  No  matter  what 
his  mental  turmoil  may  be,  no  matter  though  the  poorest  beggar 
in  the  street  have  greater  peace  of  mind,  to  the  world  at  large  he 
appears  happy  and  successful,  and  men  continue  to  look  for  ret- 
ribution in  a  life  to  come. 


THE    AMERICAN    SCHOLAR.1 

MR.  PRESIDENT  AND  GENTLEMEN, — 

I  GREET  you  on  the  recommencement  of  our  literary  year. 
Our  anniversary  is  one  of  hope,  and,  perhaps,  not  enough  of 
labor.  We  do  not  meet  for  games  of  strength  or  skill,  for  the 
recitation  of  histories,  tragedies,  and  odes,  like  the  ancient 
Greeks;2  for  parliaments  of  love  and  poesy,  like  the  Trouba- 
dours ;3  nor  for  the  advancement  of  science,  like  our  contempora- 
ries in  the  British  and  European  capitals.  Thus  far,  our  holiday 
has  been  simply  a  friendly  sign  of  the  survival  of  the  love  of 
letters  amongst  a  people  too  busy  to  give  to  letters  any  more. 
As  such,  it  is  precious  as  the  sign  of  an  indestructible  instinct. 
Perhaps  the  time  is  already  come,  when  it  ought  to  be,  and  will 
be,  something  else ;  when  the  sluggard  intellect  of  this  continent 
will  look  from  under  its  iron  lids,4  and  fill  the  postponed  expecta- 
tion of  the  world  with  something  better  than  the  exertions  of 

1  This  oration  was  delivered  in  August,  1837,  before  the  Cambridge  chap- 
ter of  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society,  a  society  composed  of  honor  students 
graduated  from  the  various  colleges. 

2  Public  games  were  a  religious  institution  in  ancient  Greece.     The  most 
important  were  the  Olympic  games  celebrated  in  honor  of  Zeus.     At  first 
they  comprised  simply  feats  of  strength,  races,  etc.  ;  but  later  it  became  cus- 
tomary to  indulge  in  intellectual  exercises.     Dramatic  pieces  and  discourses 
were  delivered,  and  artists   exhibited  their  work  while  the  games  were  in 
progress. 

3  Minstrels  of  Provence,  in  southern  France,  in  the  eleventh,  twelfth, 
and  thirteenth  centuries.     Their  poetry  was  about  love  and  gallantry  or  about 
war  and  chivalry.     They  sang  at  public  festivals  or  at  the  courts  of  great 
barons  or  princes.     They  were  also  known  as  Proven9al  minstrels. 

4  Heavy  lids. 

21 


22  EMERSON. 

mechanical  skill.  Our  day  of  dependence,  our  long  apprentice- 
ship to  the  learning  of  other  lands,  draws  to  a  close.  The 
millions,  that  around  us  are  rushing  into  life,  cannot  always  be  fed 
on  the  sere  remains  of  foreign  harvests.  Events,  actions  arise, 
that  must  be  sung,  that  will  sing  themselves.  Who  can  doubt, 
that  poetry  will  revive  and  lead  in  a  new  age,  as  the  star  in  the 
constellation  Harp,  which  now  flames  in  our  zenith,  astronomers 
announce,  shall  one  day  be  the  polestar1  for  a  thousand  years? 

In  this  hope,  I  accept  the  topic  which  not  only  usage,  but  the 
nature  of  our  association,  seem  to  prescribe  to  this  day, — The 
AMERICAN  SCHOLAR.  Year  by  year,  we  come  up  hither  to  read 
one  more  chapter  of  his  biography.  Let  us  inquire  what  light  new 
days  and  events  have  thrown  on  his  character,  and  his  hopes. 

It  is  one  of  those  fables,  which,  out  of  an  unknown  antiquity, 
convey  an  unlooked-for  wisdom,  that  the  gods,  in  the  beginning, 
divided  Man  into  men,  that  he  might  be  more  helpful  to  himself ; 
just  as  the  hand  was  divided  into  fingers,  the  better  to  answer  its 
end. 

The  old  fable  covers  a  doctrine  ever  new  and  sublime ;  that 
there  is  One  Man,  —  present  to  all  particular  men  only  partially, 
or  through  one  faculty ;  and  that  you  must  take  the  whole  soci- 
ety to  find  the  whole  man.  Man  is  not  a  farmer,  or  a  professor, 
or  an  engineer,  but  he  is  all.  Man  is  priest,  and  scholar,  and 
statesman,  and  producer,  and  soldier.  In  the  divided  or  social 
state,  these  functions  are  parceled  out  to  individuals,  each  of 
whom  aims  to  do  his  stint  of  the  joint  work,  whilst  each  other 
performs  his.  The  fable  implies,  that  the  individual,  to  possess 
himself,  must  sometimes  return  from  his  own  labor  to  embrace 
all  the  other  laborers.  But  unfortunately,  this  original  unit,  this 
fountain  of  power,  has  been  so  distributed  to  multitudes,  has 
been  so  minutely  subdivided  and  peddled  out,  that  it  is  spilled 
into  drops,  and  cannot  be  gathered.  The  state  of  society  is  one 
in  which  the  members  have  suffered  amputation  from  the  trunk, 

1  The  north  star,  or  the  star  in  the  zenith  of  the  north  pole  of  the  earth. 


THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR.  23 

and  strut  about  so  many  walking  monsters,  —  a  good  finger,  a 
neck,  a  stomach,  an  elbow,  but  never  a  man. 

Man  is  thus  metamorphosed  into  a  thing,  into  many  things. 
The  planter,  who  is  Man  sent  out  into  the  field  to  gather  food,  is 
seldom  cheered  by  any  idea  of  the  true  dignity  of  his  ministry. 
He  sees  his  bushel  and  his  cart,  and  nothing  beyond,  and  sinks 
into  the  farmer,  instead  of  Man  on  the  farm.  The  tradesman 
scarcely  ever  gives  an  ideal  worth  to  his  work,  but  is  ridden1  by 
the  routine  of  his  craft,  and  the  soul  is  subject  to  dollars.  The 
priest  becomes  a  form ;  the  attorney,  a  statute  book ;  the  mechanic, 
a  machine ;  the  sailor,  a  rope  of  a  ship. 

In  this  distribution  of  functions,  the  scholar  is  the  delegated 
intellect.  In  the  right  state,  he  is,  Man  Thinking.  In  the  degen- 
erate state,  when  the  victim  of  society,  he  tends  to  become  a 
mere  thinker,  or,  still  worse,  the  parrot2  of  other  men's  thinking. 

In  this  view  of  him,  as  Man  Thinking,  the  theory  of  his  office 
is  contained.  Him  nature  solicits  with  all  her  placid,  all  her 
monitory  pictures ;  him  the  past  instructs  ;  him  the  future  invites. 
Is  not,  indeed,  every  man  a  student,  and  do  not  all  things  exist 
for  the  student's  behoof?  And,  finally,  is  not  the  true  scholar 
the  only  true  master?  But  the  old  oracle  said,  "All  things  have 
two  handles:  beware  of  the  wrong  one."3  In  life,  too  often, 
the  scholar  errs  with  mankind  and  forfeits  his  privilege.  Let  us 
see  him  in  his  school,  and  consider  him  in  reference  to  the  main 
influences  he  receives. 

I.  The  first  in  time  and  the  first  in  importance  of  the  influences 
upon  the  mind  is  that  of  nature.  Every  day,  the  sun  ;  4  and,  after 

1  Tyrannized  over.  2  Imitator. 

3  The  teachings  of  Epictetus  (60-120),  a  Roman  Stoic  philosopher,  have 
been  handed  down  by  one  of  his  pupils,  and  preserved  in  two  treatises,  Dis- 
courses of  Epictetus,  and  Enchiridion.     From  the  latter  of  these  works  the 
quotation  is  made. 

4  The  predicate  must  be  supplied,  —  a  construction  which   occurs  fre- 
quently in  this  oration. 


24  EMERSON. 

sunset,  night  and  her  stars.  Ever  the  winds  blow;  ever  the 
grass  grows.  Every  day,  men  and  women,  conversing,  beholding 
and  beholden.  The  scholar  is  he  of  all  men  whom  this  spectacle 
most  engages.  He  must  settle  its  value  in  his  mind.  What  is 
nature  to  him?  There  is  never  a  beginning,  there  is  never  an 
end,  to  the  inexplicable  continuity  of  this  web  of  God,  but  always 
circular1  power  returning  into  itself.  Therein  it  resembles  his 
own  spirit,  whose  beginning,  whose  ending,  he  never  can  find, — 
so  entire,  so  boundless.  Far,  too,  as  her  splendors  shine,  system 
on  system  shooting  like  rays,  upward,  downward,  without  center, 
without  circumference,  —  in  the  mass  and  in  the  particle,  nature 
hastens  to  render  account  of  herself  to  the  mind.  Classification 
begins.  To  the  young  mind,  everything  is  individual,  stands  by 
itself.  By  and  by,  it  finds  how  to  join  two  things,  and  see  in 
them  one  nature  ;  then  three,  then  three  thousand ;  and  so,  tyran- 
nized over  by  its  own  unifying2  instinct,  it  goes  on  tying  things 
together,  diminishing  anomalies,  discovering  roots  running  under 
ground,  whereby  contrary  and  remote  things  cohere,  and  flower 
out  from  one  stem.  It  presently  learns,  that,  since  the  dawn  of 
history,  there  has  been  a  constant  accumulation  and  classifying 
of  facts.  But  what  is  classification  but  the  perceiving  that  these 
objects  are  not  chaotic,  and  are  not  foreign,  but  have  a  law 
which  is  also  a  law  of  the  human  mind?  The  astronomer  dis- 
covers that  geometry,  a  pure  abstraction  of  the  human  mind,  is 
the  measure  of  planetary  motion.  The  chemist  finds  proportions 
and  intelligible  method  throughout  matter ;  and  science  is  nothing 
but  the  finding  of  analogy,  identity,  in  the  most  remote  parts. 
The  ambitious  soul  sits  down  before  each  refractory  fact ;  one 
after  another,  reduces  all  strange  constitutions,  all  new  powers,  to 
their  class  and  their  law,  and  goes  on  forever  to  animate  the  last 
fiber  of  organization,  the  outskirts  of  nature,  by  insight. 

Thus  to  him,  to  this  schoolboy  under  the  bending  dome  of 


1  Circular,  because  without  beginning  and  without  end. 

2  Uniting  into  one. 


THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR.  25 

day,1  is  suggested,  that  he  and  it  proceed  from  one  root ;  one  is 
leaf  and  one  is  flower ;  relation,  sympathy,  stirring  in  every  vein. 
And  what  is  that  Root  ?  Is  not  that  the  soul  of  his  soul  ?  —  A 
thought  too  bold, —  a  dream  too  wild.  Yet  when  this  spiritual 
light  shall  have  revealed  the  law  of  more  earthly  natures, —  when 
he  has  learned  to  worship  the  soul,  and  to  see  that  the  natural 
philosophy  that  now  is,  is  only  the  first  gropings  of  its  gigantic 
hand,  he  shall  look  forward  to  an  ever-expanding  knowledge  as 
to  a  becoming  creator.2  He  shall  see,  that  nature  is  the  opposite 
of  the  soul,  answering  to  it  part  for  part.  One  is  seal,  and  one 
is  print.  Its  beauty  is  the  beauty  of  his  own  mind.  Its  laws 
are  the  laws  of  his  own  mind.  Nature  then  becomes  to  him  the 
measure  of  his  attainments.  So  much  of  nature  as  he  is  ignorant 
of,  so  much  of  his  own  mind  does  he  not  yet  possess.  And,  in 
fine,  the  ancient  precept,  "Know  thyself,"3  and  the  modern 
precept,  "  Study  nature,"  become  at  last  one  maxim. 

II.  The  next  great  influence  into  the  spirit  of  the  scholar,  is, 
the  mind  of  the  Past,  —  in  whatever  form,  whether  of  literature, 
of  art,  of  institutions,  that  mind  is  inscribed.  Books  are  the  best 
type  of  the  influence  of  the  past,  and  perhaps  we  shall  get  at  the 
truth,  —  learn  the  amount  of  this  influence  more  conveniently, — 
by  considering  their  value  alone. 

The  theory  of  books  is  noble.  The  scholar  of  the  first  age 
received  into  him  the  world  around ;  brooded  thereon ;  gave  it 
the  new  arrangement  of  his  own  mind,  and  uttered  it  again.  It 
came  into  him,  life ;  it  went  out  from  him,  truth.  It  came  to  him, 
short-lived  actions ;  it  went  out  from  him,  immortal  thoughts.  It 
came  to  him,  business ;  it  went  from  him,  poetry.  It  was  dead 
fact ;  now,  it  is  quick  thought.  It  can  stand,  and  it  can  go.  It 
now  endures,  it  now  flies,  it  now  inspires.  Precisely  in  propor- 

1  "  Dome  of  day,"  i.e.,  the  sky. 

2  "  Knowledge  as  to,"  etc.,  i.e.,  knowledge  will  become  a  creator  for  him. 

3  A  maxim  of  Chilo,  one  of  the  seven  sages  of  Greece,  who  lived  in  the 
sixth  century  B.C. 


26  EMERSON. 

tion  to  the  depth  of  mind  from  which  it  issued,  so  high  does  it 
soar,  so  long  does  it  sing. 

Or,  I  might  say,  it  depends  on  how  far  the  process  had  gone, 
of  transmuting  life  into  truth.  In  proportion  to  the  complete- 
ness of  the  distillation,  so  will  the  purity  and  imperishableness 
of  the  product  be.  But  none  is  quite  perfect.  As  no  air 
pump  can  by  any  means  make  a  perfect  vacuum,  so  neither 
can  any  artist  entirely  exclude  the  conventional,  the  local,  the 
perishable  from  his  book,  or  write  a  book  of  pure  thought, 
that  shall  be  as  efficient,  in  all  respects,  to  a  remote  posterity, 
as  to  contemporaries,  or  rather  to  the  second  age.  Each  age, 
it  is  found,  must  write  its  own  books ;  or  rather,  each  genera- 
tion for  the  next  succeeding.  The  books  of  an  older  period  will 
not  fit  this. 

Yet  hence  arises  a  grave  mischief.  The  sacredness  which  at- 
taches to  the  act  of  creation,  —  the  act  of  thought,  —  is  transferred 
to  the  record.  The  poet  chanting,  was  felt  to  be  a  divine  man : 
henceforth  the  chant  is  divine  also.  The  writer  was  a  just  and 
wise  spirit :  henceforward  it  is  settled,  the  book  is  perfect ;  as 
love  of  the  hero  corrupts  into  worship  of  his  statue.  Instantly, 
the  book  becomes  noxious :  the  guide  is  a  tyrant.  The  sluggish 
and  perverted  mind  of  the  multitude,  slow  to  open  to  the  incur- 
sions of  Reason,  having  once  so  opened,  having  once  received 
this  book,  stands  upon  it,  and  makes  an  outcry,  if  it  is  disparaged. 
Colleges  are  built  on  it.  Books  are  written  on  it  by  thinkers,  not 
by  Man  Thinking ;  by  men  of  talent,  that  is,  who  start  wrong, 
who  set  out  from  accepted  dogmas,  not  from  their  own  sight  of 
principles.  Meek  young  men  grow  up  in  libraries,  believing  it 
their  duty  to  accept  the  views,  which  Cicero,1  which  Locke,2 

1  Marcus  Tullius  Cicero  (106-43  B.C.),  Roman  author,  orator,  and  states- 
man.    He  stands  preeminent  as  a  specimen  of  the  highest  moral  and  intel- 
lectual culture  of  the  ancient  world. 

2  John  Locke  (1632-1704),  English  philosopher  and  theologian.    His  aim 
was  to  inquire  into  the  original  certainty  and  extent  of  human  knowledge. 
His  most  famous  work  is  his  Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding. 


THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR.  27 

which  Bacon,1  have  given,  forgetful  that  Cicero,  Locke,  and 
Bacon  were  only  young  men  in  libraries, 2  when  they  wrote  these 
books. 

Hence,  instead  of  Man  Thinking,  we  have  the  bookworm. 
Hence,  the  book-learned  class,  who  value  books,  as  such ;  not  as 
related  to  nature  and  the  human  constitution,  but  as  making  a 
sort  of  Third  Estate3  with  the  world  and  the  soul.  Hence,  the 
restorers  of  readings,  the  emendators,  the  bibliomaniacs  of  all 
degrees. 

Books  are  the  best  of  things,  well  used ;  abused,  among  the 
worst.  What  is  the  right  use?  What  is  the  one  end,  which  all 
means  go  to  effect?  They  are  for  nothing  but  to  inspire.  I 
had  better  never  see  a  book,  than  to  be  warped  by  its  attraction 
clean  out  of  my  own  orbit,  and  made  a  satellite  instead  of  a  sys- 
tem. The  one  thing  in  the  world,  of  value,  is  the  active  soul. 
This  every  man  is  entitled  to ;  this  every  man  contains  within 
him,  although,  in  almost  all  men,  obstructed,  and  as  yet  unborn. 
The  soul  active  sees  absolute  truth ;  and  utters  truth,  or  creates. 
In  this  action,  it  is  genius ;  not  the  privilege  of  here  and  there  a 
favorite,  but  the  sound  estate  of  every  man.  In  its  essence,  it  is 
progressive.  The  book,  the  college,  the  school  of  art,  the  insti- 
tution of  any  kind,  stop  with  some  past  utterance  of  genius. 
This  is  good,  say  they,  —  let  us  hold  by  this.  They  pin  me 
down.  They  look  backward  and  not  forward.  But  genius  looks 
forward  :  the  eyes  of  man  are  set  in  his  forehead,  not  in  his  hind- 
head:4  man  hopes:  genius  creates.  Whatever  talents  maybe, 
if  the  man  create  not,  the  pure  efflux  of  the  Deity  is  not  his ;  — 

1  Francis  Bacon  (1561-1626),  English  philosopher  and  statesman.     He 
tried  to  recall  philosophy  from  speculation  and  use  it  as  an  interpreter  of 
nature.     His  most  important  work  is  the  Novum  Organum  (New  Method). 

2  "  Young  men  in  libraries,"  i.e.,  young  men  like  themselves. 

3  In  some  countries  the  population  has  been  divided  into  three  classes  or 
estates,  with  respect  to  political  rights  and  powers,  as  nobility,  clergy,  and 
people ;  lords  temporal,  lords  spiritual,  and  commons,  etc.     The  common 
people  represent  the  "  third  estate." 

4  The  back  part  of  the  head. 


28  EMERSON. 

cinders  and  smoke  there  may  be,  but  not  yet  flame.  There  are 
creative  manners,  there  are  creative  actions,  and  creative  words ; 
manners,  actions,  words,  that  is,  indicative  of  no  custom  or 
authority,  but  springing  spontaneous  from  the  mind's  own  sense 
of  good  and  fair. 

On  the  other  part,  instead  of  being  its  own  seer,  let  it  receive 
from  another  mind  i^s  truth,  though  it  were  in  torrents  of  light, 
without  periods  of  solitude,  inquest,  and  self-recovery,  and  a 
fatal  disservice  is  done.  Genius  is  always  sufficiently  the  enemy 
of  genius  by  overinfluence.  The  literature  of  every  nation  bears 
me  witness.  The  English  dramatic  poets  have  Shakespearized l 
now  for  two  hundred  years. 

Undoubtedly  there  is  a  right  way  of  reading,  so  it  be  sternly 
subordinated.  Man  Thinking  must  not  be  subdued  by  his  instru- 
ments. Books  are  for  the  scholar's  idle  times.  When  he  can 
read  God  directly,  the  hour  is  too  precious  to  be  wasted  in  other 
men's  transcripts  of  their  readings.  But  when  the  intervals  of 
darkness  come,  as  come  they  must,  —  when  the  sun  is  hid,  and 
the  stars  withdraw  their  shining,  —  we  repair  to  the  lamps  which 
were  kindled  by  their  ray,  to  guide  our  steps  to  the  East  again, 
where  the  dawn  is.  We  hear,  that  we  may  speak.  The  Arabian 
proverb  says,  "A  fig  tree,  looking  on  a  fig  tree,  becometh  fruitful." 

It  is  remarkable,  the  character  of  the  pleasure  we  derive  from 
the  best  books.  They  impress  us  with  the  conviction,  that  one 
nature  wrote  and  the  same  reads.  We  read  the  verses  of  one  of 
the  great  English  poets,  of  Chaucer,2  of  Marvell,3  of  Dryden,4 

1  Imitated  Shakespeare.     This  is  one  of  the  many  words  which  Emerson 
has  coined. 

2  Geoffrey  Chaucer  (1340-1400),  the  "  Father  of  English  Poetry,"  author 
of  the  famous  Canterbury  Tales. 

3  Andrew  Marvell  (1621-78),  English  poet,  called  the  "  British  Aristides  " 
on  account  of  his  great  probity,  the  allusion  being  to  the  Athenian  statesman 
Aristides,  surnamed  "  the  Just."     The  Emigrants  in  the  Bermudas  is  Mar- 
veil's  greatest  poem. 

4  John  Dryden  (1631-1700),  English  poet.     He  was  appointed  poet  lau- 
reate in  1668.    One  of  his  most  popular  poems  is  The  Ode  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day. 


THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR.  29 

with  the  most  modern  joy,  —  with  a  pleasure,  I  mean,  which  is 
in  great  part  caused  by  the  abstraction  of  all  time  from  their 
verses.  There  is  some  awe  mixed  with  the  joy  of  our  surprise, 
when  this  poet,  who  lived  in  some  past  world,  two  or  three  hun- 
dred years  ago,  says  that  which  lies  close  to  my  own  soul,  that 
which  I  also  had  well-nigh  thought  and  said.  But  for  the  evidence 
thence  afforded  to  the  philosophical  doctrine  of  the  identity  of  all 
minds,  we  should  suppose  some  preestablished  harmony,  some 
foresight  of  souls  that  were  to  be,  and  some  preparation  of  stores 
for  their  future  wants,  like  the  fact  observed  in  insects,  who  lay 
up  food  before  death  for  the  young  grub  they  shall  never  see. 

I  would  not  be  hurried  by  any  love  of  system,  by  any  exag- 
geration of  instincts,  to  underrate  the  Book.  We  all  know,  that, 
as  the  human  body  can  be  nourished  on  any  food,  though  it  were 
boiled  grass  and  the  broth  of  shoes,  so  the  human  mind  can  be 
fed  by  any  knowledge.  And  great  and  heroic  men  have  existed, 
who  had  almost  no  other  information  than  by  the  printed  page. 
I  only  would  say,  that  it  needs  a  strong  head  to  bear  that  diet. 
One  must  be  an  inventor  to  read  well.  As  the  proverb  says, 
"  He  that  would  bring  home  the  wealth  of  the  Indies,  must  carry 
out  the  wealth  of  the  Indies."1  There  is  then  creative  reading 
as  well  as  creative  writing.  When  the  mind  is  braced  by  labor 
and  invention,  the  page  of  whatever  book  we  read  becomes 
luminous  with  manifold  allusion.  Every  sentence  is  doubly 
significant,  and  the  sense  of  our  author  is  as  broad  as  the  world. 
We  then  see,  what  is  always  true,  that,  as  the  seer's  hour  of  vision 
is  short  and  rare  among  heavy  days  and  months,  so  is  its  record, 
perchance,  the  least  part  of  his  volume.  The  discerning  will 
read,  in  his  Plato2  or  Shakespeare,3  only  that  least  part,  —  only 

1  Spanish  proverb. 

2  Plato  (429-347  B.C.),  Athenian  author  and  philosopher,  the  father  of 
idealism.     He  was  a  disciple  of  Socrates,  whose  memory  and  teachings  he 
preserved  in  his  Dialogues. 

3  William  Shakespeare  (1564-1616),  the  greatest  of  English  poets  and 
dramatists.     His  most  popular  plays  are  Merchant  of  Venice  and  Hamlet. 


30.  EMERSON. 

the  authentic  utterances  of  the  oracle ;  —  all  the  rest  he  rejects, 
were  it  never  so  many  times  Plato's  and  Shakespeare's. 

Of  course,  there  is  a  portion  of  reading  quite  indispensable  to 
a  wise  man.  History  and  exact  science  he  must  learn  by  labo- 
rious reading.  Colleges,  in  like  manner,  have  their  indispensable 
office,  —  to  teach  elements.  But  they  can  only  highly  serve  us, 
when  they  aim  not  to  drill,  but  to  create ;  when  they  gather  from 
far  every  ray  of  various  genius  to  their  hospitable  halls,  and,  by 
the  concentrated  fires,  set  the  hearts  of  their  youth  on  flame. 
Thought  and  knowledge  are  natures  in  which  apparatus  and  pre- 
tension avail  nothing.  Gowns,  and  pecuniary  foundations,  though 
of  towns  of  gold,  can  never  countervail1  the  least  sentence  or 
syllable  of  wit.2  Forget  this,  and  our  American  colleges  will 
recede  in  their  public  importance,  whilst  they  grow  richer  every 
year. 

III.  There  goes  in  the  world  a  notion,  that  the  scholar  should 
be  a  recluse,  a  valetudinarian,  —  as  unfit  for  any  handiwork  or 
public  labor,  as  a  penknife  for  an  ax.  The  so-called  "  practical 
men"  sneer  at  speculative  men,  as  if,  because  they  speculate  or 
see,  they  could  do  nothing.  I  have  heard  it  said  that  the  clergy, 
—  who  are  always,  more  universally  than  any  other  class,  the 
scholars  of  their  day,  —  are  addressed  as  women  ;  that  the  rough, 
spontaneous  conversation  of  men  they  do  not  hear,  but  only  a 
mincing  and  diluted  speech.  They  are  often  virtually  disfran- 
chised ;  and,  indeed,  there  are  advocates  for  their  celibacy.  As 
far  as  this  is  true  of  the  studious  classes,  it  is  not  just  and  wise. 
Action  is  with  the  scholar  subordinate,  but  it  is  essential.  With- 
out it,  he  is  not  yet  man!  Without  it,  thought  can  never  ripen 
into  truth.  Whilst  the  world  hangs  before  the  eye  as  a  cloud  of 
beauty,  we  cannot  even  see  its  beauty.  Inaction  is  cowardice, 
but  there  can  be  no  scholar  without  the  heroic  mind.  The  pre- 
amble3 of  thought,  the  transition  through  which  it  passes  from 

i  Prevail  against.  2  Sound  sense.  3  Prelude,  or  preliminary. 


THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR.  31 

the  unconscious  to  the  conscious,  is  action.  Only  so  much  do  I 
know,  as  I  have  lived.  Instantly  we  know  whose  words  are 
loaded  with  life,  and  whose  not. 

The  world, —  this  shadow  of  the  soul,  or  other  me,  lies  wide 
around.  Its  attractions  are  the  keys  which  unlock  my  thoughts 
and  make  me  acquainted  with  myself.  I  run  eagerly  into  this 
resounding  tumult.  I  grasp  the  hands  of  those  next  me,  and 
take  my  place  in  the  ring  to  suffer  and  to  work,  taught  by  an 
instinct,  that  so  shall  the  dumb  abyss  be  vocal  with  speech.  I 
pierce  its  order ;  I  dissipate  its  fear ;  I  dispose  of  it  within  the 
circuit  of  my  expanding  life.  So  much  only  of  life  as  I  know 
by  experience,  so  much  of  the  wilderness  have  I  vanquished  and 
planted,  or  so  far  have  I  extended  my  being,  my  dominion.  I 
do  not  see  how  any  man  can  afford,  for  the  sake  of  his  nerves 
and  his  nap,  to  spare  any  action  in  which  he  can  partake.  It  is 
pearls  and  rubies  to  his  discourse.  Drudgery,  calamity,  exasper- 
ation, want,  are  instructors  in  eloquence  and  wisdom.  The  true 
scholar  grudges  every  opportunity  of  action  passed  by,  as  a  loss 
of  power. 

It  is  the  raw  material  out  of  which  the  intellect  molds  her 
splendid  products.  A  strange  process  too,  this,  by  which  experi- 
ence is  converted  into  thought,  as  a  mulberry  leaf  is  converted 
into  satin.1  The  manufacture  goes  forward  at  all  hours. 

The  actions  and  events  of  our  childhood  and  youth,  are  now 
matters  of  calmest  observation.  They  lie  like  fair  pictures  in  the 
air.  Not  so  with  our  recent  actions,  —  with  the  business  which 
we  now  have  in  hand.  On  this  we  are  quite  unable  to  speculate. 
Our  affections  as  yet  circulate  through  it.  We  no  more  feel  or 
know  it,  than  we  feel  the  feet,  or  the  hand,  or  the  brain  of  our 
body.  The  new  deed  is  yet  a  part  of  life,  —  remains  for  a  time 
immersed  in  our  unconscious  life.  In  some  contemplative  hour, 
it  detaches  itself  from  the  life  like  a  ripe  fruit,  to  become  a 
thought  of  the  mind.  Instantly,  it  is  raised,  transfigured ;  the 

1  The  silkworm  feeds  on  the  mulberry  leaf,  which  furnishes  the  material 
from  which  it  spins  the  silk  that  is  manufactured  into  satin. 


32  EMERSON. 

corruptible  has  put  on  incorruption.1  Henceforth  it  is  an  object 
of  beauty,  however  base  its  origin  and  neighborhood.  Observe, 
too,  the  impossibility  of  antedating  this  act.  In  its  grub  state,  it 
cannot  fly,  it  cannot  shine,  it  is  a  dull  grub.  But  suddenly,  with- 
out observation,  the  selfsame  thing  unfurls  beautiful  wings,  and  is 
an  angel  of  wisdom.  So  is  there  no  fact,  no  event,  in  our  private 
history,  which  shall  not,  sooner  or  later,  lose  its  adhesive,  inert 
form,  and  astonish  us  by  soaring  from  our  body  into  the  empy- 
rean. Cradle  and  infancy,  school  and  playground,  the  fear  of 
boys,  and  dogs,  and  ferules,2  the  love  of  little  maids  and  berries, 
and  many  another  fact  that  once  rilled  the  whole  sky,  are  gone 
already ;  friend  and  relative,  profession  and  party,  town  and 
country,  nation  and  world,  must  also  soar  and  sing. 

Of  course,  he  who  has  put  forth  his  total  strength  in  fit  actions, 
has  the  richest  return  of  wisdom.  I  will  not  shut  myself  out 
of  this  globe  of  action,  and  transplant  an  oak  into  a  flowerpot, 
there  to  hunger  and  pine ;  nor  trust  the  revenue  of  some  single 
faculty,  and  exhaust  one  vein  of  thought,  much  like  those  Savoy- 
ards,3 who,  getting  their  livelihood  by  carving  shepherds,  shep- 
herdesses, and  smoking  Dutchmen,  for  all  Europe,  went  out  one 
day  to  the  mountain  to  find  stock,  and  discovered  that  they  had 
whittled  up  the  last  of  their  pine  trees.  Authors  we  have,  in 
numbers,  who  have  written  out  their  vein,  and  who,  moved  by 
a  commendable  prudence,  sail  for  Greece  or  Palestine,  follow 
the  trapper  into  the  prairie,  or  ramble  round  Algiers,  to  replenish 
their  merchantable  stock. 

If  it  were  only  for  a  vocabulary,  the  scholar  would  be  covetous 
of  action.  Life  is  our  dictionary.  Years  are  well  spent  in  coun- 
try labors ;  in  town,  —  in  the  insight  into  trades  and  manufactures ; 

1  i  Cor.  xv.  54. 

2  Corporal  punishment  at  school  administered  with  the  ferule. 

3  Inhabitants  of  Savoy,  south  of  Lake  Geneva,  the  loftiest  mountain  re- 
gion of  Europe.     Wood-carving  was  one  of  their  chief  industries,  for  which 
the  forests  of  beech,  birch,  and  pine,  which  have  suffered  deplorable  clear- 
ances, furnished  ample  material. 


THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR.  33 

in  frank  intercourse  with  many  men  and  women ;  in  science ;  in 
art ;  to  the  one  end  of  mastering  in  all  their  facts  a  language  by 
which  to  illustrate  and  embody  our  perceptions.  I  learn  imme- 
diately from  any  speaker  how  much  he  has  already  lived,  through 
the  poverty  or  the  splendor  of  his  speech.  Life  lies  behind  us 
as  the  quarry  from  whence  we  get  tiles  and  copestones1  for  the 
masonry  of  to-day.  This  is  the  way  to  learn  grammar.  Colleges 
and  books  only  copy  the  language  which  the  field  and  the  work- 
yard  made. 

But  the  final  value  of  action,  like  that  of  books,  and  better  than 
books,  is,  that  it  is  a  resource.  That  great  principle  of  Undula- 
tion2 in  nature,lthat  shows  itself  in  the  inspiring  and  expiring  of 
the  breath ;  in  desire  and  satiety ;  in  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the 
sea ;  in  day  and  night ;  in  heat  and  cold ;  and  as  yet  more 
deeply  ingrained  in  every  atom  and  every  fluid,  is  known  to  us 
under  the  name  of  Polarity,3 — these  "fits  of  easy  transmission 
and  reflection,"  as  Newton4  called  them,  are  the  law  of  nature 
because  they  are  the  law  of  spirit. 

The  mind  now  thinks ;  now  acts ;  and  each  fit  reproduces  the 
other.  When  the  artist  has  exhausted  his  materials,  when  the 
fancy  no  longer  paints,  when  thoughts  are  no  longer  appre- 
hended, and  books  are  a  weariness,  —  he  has  always  the  resource 
to  live.  Character  is  higher  than  intellect.  Thinking  is  the 
function.  Living  is  the  functionary.  The  stream  retreats  to  its 
source.  A  great  soul  will  be  strong  to  live,  as  well  as  strong  to 
think.  Does  he  lack  organ  or  medium  to  impart  his  truths? 
He  can  still  fall  back  on  this  elemental  force  of  living  them. 
This  is  a  total  act.  Thinking  is  a  partial  act.  Let  the  grandeur 
of  justice  shine  in  his  affairs.  Let  the  beauty  of  affection  cheer 

1  Headstones  of  a  wall.  2  Wave  motion. 

3  That  quality  or  condition  of  a  body  by  virtue  of  which  it  exhibits  oppo- 
site or  contrasted  powers  or  properties  in  opoo«ute  directions. 

4  Sir  Isaac  Newton  ( 1042-1 727;,  lingiish  phflosonher  and  mathematician. 
He  discovered  the  law  of  gravitation  and  is  regarded  as  the  greatest  of  natural 
philosophers.     His  most  important  work  was  the  Principia. 

3 


34  EMERSON. 

his  lowly  roof.  Those  "  far  from  fame,"  who  dwell  and  act  with 
him,  will  feel  the  force  of  his  constitution  in  the  doings  and  pas- 
sages of  the  day  better  than  it  can  be  measured  by  any  public 
and  designed  display.  Time  shall  teach  him,  that  the  scholar 
loses  no  hour  which  the  man  lives.  Herein  he  unfolds  the 
sacred  germ  of  his  instinct,  screened  from  influence.  What  is 
lost  in  seemliness  is  gained  in  strength.  Not  out  of  those,  on 
whom  systems  of  education  have  exhausted  their  culture,  comes 
the  helpful  giant  to  destroy  the  old  or  to  build  the  new,  but  out 
of  unhandseled1  savage  nature,  out  of  terrible  Druids2  and 
Berserkirs3  come  at  last  Alfred4  and  Shakespeare. 

I  hear  therefore  with  joy  whatever  is  beginnlig  to  be  said  of 
the  dignity  and  necessity  of  labor  to  every  citizen.  There  is 
virtue  yet  in  the  hoe  and  the  spade,  for  learned  as  well  as  for 
unlearned  hands.  And  labor  is  everywhere  welcome ;  always 
we  are  invited  to  work ;  only  be  this  limitation  observed,  that  a 
man  shall  not  for  the  sake  of  wider  activity  sacrifice  any  opinion 
to  the  popular  judgments  and  modes  of  action. 

I  have  now  spoken  of  the  education  of  the  scholar  by  nature,  by 
books,  and  by  action.  It  remains  to  say  somewhat  of  his  duties. 

1  A  handsel  is  a  gift ;  hence,  ungifted  or  uncultured. 

2  An  order  of  priests  among  the  ancient  Celts  of  Gaul,  Britain,  and  Ire- 
land.    They  believed  in  one  Supreme  Being  and  in  the  transmigration  of  the 
soul  from  one  body  to  another.    They  were  held  in  great  awe,  as  disobedience 
to  their  mandates  was  followed  by  excommunication,  in  those  days  a  terrible 
fate.     They  guarded  the  secret  archives  of  the  religion  and  acted  as  instruc- 
tors and  judges.     Though  they  were  well  educated  and  understood  many  of 
the  sciences,  they  also  practiced  divination  and  magic,  and  sacrificed  human 
beings  as  part  of  their  worship.     The  Druids  reverenced  the  oak  and  the 
mistletoe,  and  their  most  profound  ceremonies  were  performed  in  the  depths 
of  oak  forests  or  in  caves. 

3  Berserkir,  or  Berserker,  was  a  hero  in   Scandinavian  mythology  who 
fought  without  armor,  but  overcame  all  opponents  by  his  valor ;  hence  the 
name  Berserkirs  was  given  to  a  class  of  warriors  who  fought  naked  under  the 
influence  of  frenzy. 

4  Alfred  the  Great  (849-901),  King  of  the  West  Saxons,  a  distinguished 


THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR.  35 

They  are  such  as  become  Man  Thinking.  They  may  all  be 
comprised  in  self-trust.  The  office  of  the  scholar  is  to  cheer,  to 
raise,  and  to  guide  men  by  showing  them  facts  amidst  appear- 
ances. He  plies  the  slow,  unhonored,  and  unpaid  task  of  obser- 
vation. Flamsteed 1  and  Herschel,2  in  their  glazed  observatories, 
may  catalogue  the  stars  with  the  praise  of  all  men,  and,  the  results 
being  splendid  and  useful,  honor  is  sure.  But  he,  in  his  private 
observatory,  cataloguing  obscure  and  nebulous  stars  of  the 
human  mind,  which  as  yet  no  man  has  thought  of  as  such, — 
watching  days  and  months,  sometimes,  for  a  few  facts ;  correcting 
still  his  old  records ;  —  must  relinquish  display  and  immediate 
fame.  In  the  long  period  of  his  preparation,  he  must  betray 
often  an  ignorance  and  shiftlessness  in  popular  arts,  incurring  the 
disdain  of  the  able  who  shoulder  him  aside.  Long  he  must 
stammer  in  his  speech ;  often  forego  the  living  for  the  dead. 
Worse  yet,  he  must  accept,  —  how  often!  poverty  and  solitude. 
For  the  ease  and  pleasure  of  treading  the  old  road,  accepting 
the  fashions,  the  education,  the  religion  of  society,  he  takes  the 
cross  of  making  his  own,  and,  of  course,  the  self-accusation,  the 
faint  heart,  the  frequent  uncertainty  and  loss  of  time,  which  are 
the  nettles  and  tangling  vines  in  the  way  of  the  self-relying  and 
self-directed ;  and  the  state  of  virtual  hostility  in  which  he  seems 

scholar  and  patron  of  learning.     He  is  characterized  by  historians  as  the 
wisest,  best,  and  greatest  king  that  ever  reigned  in  England. 

1  John   Flamsteed  (1646-1719),    first   English   astronomer   royal  under 
Charles  II.     He  was  the  first  to  explain  the  true  principles  of  the  equation 
of  time.     His   Historia  Coelistis   Britannicae,  in  which  he  determined  the 
position  of  nearly  3000  stars,  was  the  first  trustworthy  catalogue  of  the  stars. 

2  Sir  William   Herschel   (1738-1822)  was  of  German  birth,  but  all  his 
astronomical  work  was  done  in  England.     He  accomplished  more  than  any 
other  man  in  the  field  of  astronomy.     He  discovered  the  planet  Uranus,  and 
made  many  remarkable  observations  upon  the  physical  constitution  of  the 
sun,  and  upon  comets ;  but  his  most  valuable  service  to  the  cause  of  astron- 
omy consisted  in  his  accurate  observations  upon  variable  and  binary  stars. 
He  demonstrated  the  action  upon  the  most  distant  members  of  the  firmament 
of  the  same  mechanical  laws  that  bind  together  our  solar  system. 


36  EMERSON. 

to  stand  to  society,  and  especially  to  educated  society.  For  all 
this  loss  and  scorn,  what  offset?  He  is  to  find  consolation  in 
exercising  the  highest  functions  of  human  nature.  He  is  one, 
who  raises  himself  from  private  considerations,  and  breathes  and 
lives  on  public  and  illustrious  thoughts.  He.  is  the  world's  eye. 
He  is  the  world's  heart.  He  is  to  resist  the  vulgar  prosperity 
that  retrogrades  ever  to  barbarism,  by  preserving  and  commu- 
nicating heroic  sentiments,  noble  biographies,  melodious  verse, 
and  the  conclusions  of  history.  Whatsoever  oracles  the  human 
heart,  in  all  emergencies,  in  all  solemn  hours,  has  uttered  as  its 
commentary  on  the  world  of  actions,  —  these  he  shall  receive 
and  impart.  And  whatsoever  new  verdict  Reason  from  her 
inviolable  seat  pronounces  on  the  passing  men  and  events  of  to- 
day,—  this  he  shall  hear  and  promulgate. 

These  being  his  functions,  it  becomes  him  to  feel  all  confidence 
in  himself,  and  to  defer  never  to  the  popular  cry.  He  and  he 
only  knows  the  world.  The  world  of  any  moment  is  the  merest 
appearance.  Some  great  decorum,  some  fetish1  of  a  govern- 
ment, some  ephemeral  trade,  or  war,  or  man,  is  cried  up  by  half 
mankind  and  cried  down  by  the  other  half,  as  if  all  depended  on 
this  particular  up  or  down.  The  odds  are  that  the  whole  ques- 
tion is  not  worth  the  poorest  thought  which  the  scholar  has  lost 
in  listening  to  the  controversy.  Let  him  not  quit  his  belief  that 
a  popgun  is  a  popgun,  though  the  ancient  and  honorable  of  the 
earth  affirm  it  to  be  the  crack  of  doom.  In  silence,  in  steadi- 
ness, in  severe  abstraction,  let  him  hold  by  himself ;  add  obser- 
vation to  observation,  patient  of  neglect,  patient  of  reproach ;  and 
bide  his  own  time,  —  happy  enough,  if  he  can  satisfy  himself 
alone,  that  this  day  he  has  seen  something  truly.  Success  treads2 
on  every  right  step.  For  the  instinct  is  sure,  that  prompts  him 
to  tell  his  brother  what  he  thinks.  He  then  learns,  that  in  going 
down  into  the  secrets  of  his  own  mind,  he  has  descended  into  the 
secrets  of  all  minds.  He  learns  that  he  who  has  mastered  any 

1  An  idol  or  object  of  blind  devotion. 

2  Follows. 


THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR.  37 

law  in  his  private  thoughts,  is  master  to  that  extent  of  all  men 
whose  language  he  speaks,  and  of  all  into  whose  language  his 
own  can  be  translated.  The  poet,  in  utter  solitude  remembering 
his  spontaneous  thoughts  and  recording  them,  is  found  to  have 
recorded  that,  which  men  in  crowded  cities  find  true  for  them 
also.  The  orator  distrusts  at  first  the  fitness  of  his  frank  confes- 
sions,— his  want  of  knowledge  of  the  persons  he  addresses, — until 
he  finds  that  he  is  the  complement  of  his  hearers ;  —  that  they 
drink  his  words  because  he  fulfills  for  them  their  own  nature ; 
the  deeper  he  dives  into  his  privatest,  secretest  presentiment,  to 
his  wonder  he  finds,  this  is  the  most  acceptable,  most  public,  and 
universally  true.  The  people  delight  in  it ;  the  better  part  of 
every  man  feels,  This  is  my  music ;  this  is  myself. 

In  self-trust,  all  the  virtues  are  comprehended.  Free  should 
the  scholar  be, —  free  and  brave.  Free  even  to  the  definition  of 
freedom,  "  without  any  hindrance  that  does  not  arise  out  of  his 
own  constitution."  Brave  ;  for  fear  is  a  thing,  which  a  scholar 
by  his  very  function  puts  behind  him.  Fear  always  springs  from 
ignorance.  It  is  a  shame  to  him  if  his  tranquillity,  amid  dan- 
gerous times,  arise  from  the  presumption,  that,  like  children  and 
women,  his  is  a  protected  class ;  or  if  he  seek  a  temporary  peace 
by  the  diversion  of  his  thoughts  from  politics  or  vexed  questions, 
hiding  his  head  like  an  ostrich  in  the  flowering  bushes,1  peeping 
into  microscopes,  and  turning  rhymes,  as  a  boy  whistles  to  keep 
his  courage  up.  Sa  is  the  danger  a  danger  still ;  so  is  the  fear 
worse.  Manlike  let  him  turn  and  face  it.  Let  him  look  into  its 
eye  and  search  its  nature,  inspect  its  origin,  —  see  the  whelping 
of  this  lion, — which  lies  no  great  way  back;  he  will  then  find 
in  himself  a  perfect  comprehension  of  its  nature  and  extent ;  he 
will  have  made  his  hands  meet  on  the  other  side,  and  can  hence- 
forth defy  it,  and  pass  on  superior.  The  world  is  his,  who  can  see 
through  its  pretension.  What  deafness,  what  stone-blind  custom, 
what  overgrown  error  you  behold  is  there  only  by  sufferance, — 

1  The  ostrich,  when  hunted,  thrusts  its  head  into  a  bush  and  imagines 
itself  invisible  because  it  cannot  see  the  hunter. 


38  EMERSON. 

by  your  sufferance.     See  it  to  be  a  lie,  and  you  have  already 
dealt  it  its  mortal  blow. 

Yes,  we  are  the  cowed,  —  we  the  trustless.  It  is  a  mischievous 
notion  that  we  are  come  late  into  nature ;  that  the  world  was 
finished  a  long  time  ago.  As  the  world  was  plastic  and  fluid  in 
the  hands  of  God,  so  it  is  ever  to  so  much  of  his  attributes  as  we 
bring  to  it.  To  ignorance  and  sin,  it  is  flint.1  They  adapt  them- 
selves to  it  as  they  may ;  but  in  proportion  as  a  man  has  any- 
thing in  him  divine,  the  firmament  flows  before  him  and  takes  his 
signet  and  form.  Not  he  is  great  who  can  alter  matter,  but  he 
who  can  alter  my  state  of  mind.  They  are  the  kings  of  the 
world  who  give  the  color  of  their  present  thought  to  all  nature 
and  all  art,  and  persuade  men  by  the  cheerful  serenity  of  their 
carrying  the  matter,  that  this  thing  which  they  do,  is  the  apple 
which  the  ages  have  desired  to  pluck,  now  at  last  ripe,  and  invit- 
ing nations  to  the  harvest.  The  great  man  makes  the  great 
thing.  Wherever  Macdonald  sits,  there  is  the  head  of  the  table.2 
Linnaeus3  makes  botany  the  most  alluring  of  studies,  and  wins 
it  from  the  farmer  and  the  herb-woman  ;  Davy,4  chemistry  ;  and 

1  "  It  is  flint,"  i.e.,  hard  or  unimpressionable  as  flint. 

2  In  Cervantes'  Don  Quixote,  Sancho  Panza,  Don  Quixote's  squire,  relates 
a  story  of  a  gentleman  who,  having  invited  a  poor  farmer  to  dine  with  him, 
pressed  him  to  take  the  head  of  the  table.     The  countryman,  piquing  himself 
on  his  good  breeding,  refused  to  take  the  place  of  honor,  until  his  host,  los- 
ing all  patience,  exclaimed,  "  Sit  thee  down,  clodpole,  for  let  me  sit  wherever 
I  will,  thpt  will  still  be  the  upper  end  and  the  place  of  worship  to  thee." 
The  sam<~  thought,  modified  in  expression,  is  placed  by  different  authors  in 
the  mouths  of  various  men,  and  it  is  uncertain  to  which  of  several  famous 
Scotchmen  Emerson  ascribes  it. 

3  Carolus  Linnaeus,  or  Carl  von  Linne  (1707-78),  Swedish  botanist.     He 
established  natural  science  upon  its  modern  basis,  and  was,  in  botany  and 
zoology,  the  foremost  man  of  his  time.      His  artificial  system  of  plant  classi- 
fication, though   now  discarded,  was   simple  and  easily   followed,  and  has 
greatly  facilitated  the  study  of  botany. 

4  Sir    Humphry    Davy    (1778-1829),    English    chemist.       His    greatest 
achievement  was  his  account  of  the  decomposition  by  galvanism  of  the  fixed 
alkalies,  by  which  he  proved  that  these  alkalies  are  metallic  oxides. 


THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR.  39 

Cuvier,1  fossils.  The  day  is  always  his,  who  works  in  it  with 
serenity  and  great  aims.  The  unstable  estimates  of  men  crowd 
to  him  whose  mind  is  filled  with  a  truth,  as  the  heaped  waves  of 
the  Atlantic  follow  the  moon.2 

For  this  self -trust,  the  reason  is  deeper  than  can  be  fathomed, 
—  darker  than  can  be  enlightened.  I*  might  not  carry  with  me 
the  feeling  of  my  audience  in  stating  my  own  belief.  But  I  have 
already  shown  the  ground  of  my  hope,  in  adverting  to  the  doc- 
trine that  man  is  one.  I  believe  man  has  been  wronged ;  he 
has  wronged  himself.  He  has  almost  lost  the  light,  that  can  lead 
him  back  to  his  prerogatives.  Men  are  become  of  no  account. 
Men  in  history,  men  in  the  world  of  to-day  are  bugs,  are  spawn, 
and  are  called  "the  mass"  and  "the  herd."  .In  a  century,  in  a 
millennium,  one  or  two  men ;  that  is  to  say, —  one  or  two  approxi- 
mations to  the  right  state  of  every  man.  All  the  rest  behold  in 
the  hero  or  the  poet  their  own  green  and  crude  being,  —  ripened ; 
yes,  and  are  content  to  be  less,  so  that  may  attain  to  its  full 
stature.  What  a  testimony, — full  of  grandeur,  full  of  pity,  is  borne 
to  the  demands  of  his  own  nature,  by  the  poor  clansman,  the  poor 
partisan,  who  rejoices  in  the  glory  of  his  chief.  The  poor  and 
the  low  find  some  amends  to  their  immense  moral  capacity,  for 
their  acquiescence  in  a  political  and  social  inferiority.  They  are 
content  to  be  brushed  like  flies  from  the  path  of  a  great  person, 
so  that  justice  shall  be  done  by  him  to  that  common  nature 
which  it  is  the  dearest  desire  of  all  to  see  enlarged  and  glorified. 
They  sun  themselves  in  the  great  man's  light,  and  feel  it  to  be 
their  own  element.  They  cast  the  dignity  of  man  from  their 
downtrod  selves  upon  the  shoulders  of  a  hero,  and  will  perish 
to  add  one  drop  of  blood  to  make  that  great  heart  beat,  those 

1  George  Cuvier  (1769-1832),   French  naturalist.      He  first  applied  to 
zoology  the  natural  method,  and  founded  a  system  of  classification  of  animals 
based  on  their  anatomical  structure.     He  is  regarded  as  the  founder  of  the 
science  of  comparative  anatomy. 

2  The  attraction  of  the  moon  heaps  up  the  waters  of  the  sea  into  a  broad, 
low  wave,  the  passage  of  which  forms  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  tide. 


4^>  EMERSON. 

giant  sinews  combat  and  conquer.     He  lives  for  us,  and  we  live 
in  him. 

Men  such  as  they  are,  very  naturally  seek  money  or  power ; 
and  power  because  it  is  as  good  as  money,  —  the  "spoils,"  so 
called,  "  of  office."  And  why  not?  for  they  aspire  to  the  highest, 
and  this,  in  their  sleep-Walking,  they  dream  is  highest.  Wake 
them,  and  they  shall  quit  the  false  good,  and  leap  to  the  true,  and 
leave  governments  to  clerks  and  desks.  This  revolution  is  to 
be  wrought  by  the  gradual  domestication  of  the  idea  of  Culture. 
The  main  enterprise  of  the  world  for  splendor,  for  extent,  is  the 
upbuilding  of  a  man.  Here  are  the  materials  strown1  along  the 
ground.  The  private  life  of  one  man  shall  be  a  more  illustrious 
monarchy, — more  formidable  to  its  enemy,  more  sweet  and  serene 
in  its  influence  to  its  friend,  than  any  kingdom  in  history.  For 
a  man,  rightly  viewed,  comprehendeth  the  particular  natures  of 
all  men.  Each  philosopher,  each  bard,  each  actor,  has  only 
done  for  me,  as  by  a  delegate,  what  one  day  I  can  do  for  my- 
self. The  books  which  once  we  valued  more  than  the  apple 
of  the  eye,  we  have  quite  exhausted.  What  is  that  but  saying, 
that  we  have  come  up  with  the  point  of  view  which  the  uni- 
versal mind  took  through  the  eyes  of  one  scribe ;  we  have 
been  that  man,  and  have  passed  on.  First,  one ;  then  another ; 
we  drain  all  cisterns,  and,  waxing  greater  by  all  these  supplies, 
we  crave  a  better  and  more  abundant  food.  The  man  has 
never  lived  that  can  feed  us  ever.  The  human  mind  cannot  be 
enshrined  in  a  person,  who  shall  set  a  barrier  on  any  one  side  to 
this  unbounded,  unboundable  empire.  It  is  one  central  fire, 
which,  flaming  now  out  of  the  lips  of  Etna,2  lightens  the  capes 
of  Sicily ;  and,  now  out  of  the  throat  of  Vesuvius,3  illuminates 
the  towers  and  vineyards  of  Naples.  It  is  one  light  which 

1  Strewn. 

2  A  celebrated  volcanic  mountain  of  Sicily,  the  largest  island  in  the  Medi- 
terranean Sea. 

3  A  famous  volcano,  the  most  active  in  Europe,  situated  near  Naples,  the 
largest  town  in  Italy. 


THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR.  41 

beams  out  of  a  thousand  stars.  It  is  one  soul  which  animates 
all  men.  ^^ 

But  I  have  dwelt  perhaps  tediously  upon  this  abstraction  of 
the  Scholar.  I  ought  not  to  delay  longer  to  add  what  I  have  to 
say,  of  nearer  reference  to  the  time  and  to  this  country. 

Historically,  there  is  thought  to  be  a  difference  in  the  ideas 
which  predominate  over  successive  epochs,  and  there  are  data 
for  marking  the  genius  of  the  Classic,  of  the  Romantic,  and  now 
of  the  Reflective  or  Philosophical  age.  With  the  views  I  have 
intimated  of  the  oneness  or  the  identity  of  the  mind  through  all 
individuals,  I  do  not  much  dwell  on  these  differences.  In  fact, 
I  believe  each  individual  passes  through  all  three.  The  boy  is  a 
Greek ;  the  youth,  romantic ;  the  adult,  reflective.  I  deny  not, 
however,  that  a  revolution  in  the  leading  idea  may  be  distinctly 
enough  traced. 

Our  age  is  bewailed  as  the  age  of  Introversion.1  Must  that 
needs  be  evif?  We,  it  seems,  are  critical ;  we  are  embarrassed 
with  second  thoughts ;  we  cannot  enjoy  anything  for  hankering 
to  know  whereof  the  pleasure  consists ;  we  are  lined  with  eyes ; 
we  see  with  our  feet ;  the  time  is  infected  with  Hamlet's  unhap- 
piness, — 

"  Sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought."2 

Is  it  so  bad  then?  Sight  is  the  last  thing  to  be  pitied.  Would 
we  be  blind?  Do  we  fear  lest  we  should  outsee  nature  and  God, 
and  drink  truth  dry?  I  look  upon  the  discontent  of  the  literary 
class,  as  a  mere  announcement  of  the  fact,  that  they  find  them- 
selves not  in  the  state  of  mind  of  their  fathers,  and  regret  the 
coming  state  as  untried ;  as  a  boy  dreads  the  water  before  he 
has  learned  that  he  can  swim.  \  If  there  is  any  period  one  would 
desire  to  be  born  in,  —  is  it  not  the  age  of  Revolution ;  when  the 
old  and  the  new  stand  side  by  side,  and  admit  of  being  compared ; 

1  Literally,  turning  inward ;  hence,  reflection. 

2  Shakespeare's  Hamlet,  act  in.,  sc.  I. 


42  EMERSON. 

when  the  energies  of  all  men  are  searched  by  fear  and  by  hope ; 
when  the  historic  glories  of  the  old,  can  be  compensated  by  the 
rich  possibilities  of  the  new  era  ?  This  time,  like  all  times,  is  a 
very  good  one,  if  we  but  know  what  to  do  with  it. 

I  read  with  joy  some  of  the  auspicious  signs  of  the  coming 
days,  as  they  glimmer  already  through  poetry  and  art,  through 
philosophy  and  science,  through  church  and  state. 

One  of  these  signs  is  the  fact,  that  the  same  movement  which 
effected  the  elevation  of  what  was  called  the  lowest  class  in  the 
state,  assumed  in  literature  a  very  marked  and  as  benign  an 
aspect.  Instead  of  the  sublime  and  beautiful ;  the  near,  the  low, 
the  common,  was  explored  and  poetized.  That,  which  had  been 
negligently  trodden  under  foot  by  those  who  were  harnessing 
and  provisioning  themselves  for  long  journeys  into  far  countries, 
is  suddenly  found  to  be  richer  than  all  foreign  parts.  The  liter- 
ature of  the  poor,  the  feelings  of  the  child,  the  philosophy  of  the 
street,  the  meaning  of  household  life,  are  the  topics  of  the  time. 
It  is  a  great  stride.  It  is  a  sign,  —  is  it  not?  of  new  vigor,  when 
the  extremities  are  made  active,  when  currents  of  warm  life  run 
into  the  hands  and  the  feet.  I  ask  not  for  the  great,  the  remote, 
the  romantic ;  what  is  doing  in  Italy  or  Arabia ;  what  is  Greek 
art,  or  Provengal  minstrelsy ;  I  embrace  the  common,  I  explore 
and  sit  at  the  feet  of  the  familiar,  the  low.  Give  me  insight 
into  to-day,  and  you  may  have  the  antique  and  future  worlds. 
What  would  we  really  know  the  meaning  of  ?  The  meal  in  the 
firkin ;  the  milk  in  the  pan ;  the  ballad  in  the  street ;  the  news 
of  the  boat ;  the  glance  of  the  eye ;  the  form  and  the  gait  of  the 
body ;  —  show  me  the  ultimate  reason  of  these  matters ;  show 
me  the  sublime  presence  of  the  highest  spiritual  cause  lurking,  as 
always  it  does  lurk,  in  these  suburbs  and  extremities  of  nature ; 
let  me  see  every  trifle  bristling  with  the  polarity  that  ranges  it 
instantly  on  an  eternal  law ;  and  the  shop,  the  plow,  and  the 
leger,1  referred  to  the  like  cause  by  which  light  undulates  and. 
poets  sing ;  —  and  the  world  lies  no  longer  a  dull  miscellany  and 

1  Old  form  of  "ledger." 


THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR.  43 

lumber  room,  but  has  form  and  order ;  there  is  no  trifle ;  there  is 
no  puzzle ;  but  one  design  unites  and  animates  the  farthest  pin- 
nacle and  the  lowest  trench. 

x~~This  idea  has  inspired  the  genius  of  Goldsmith,1  Burns,2  Cow- 
per,3  and,  in  a  newer  time,  of  Goethe,4  Wordsworth,5  and  Car- 
lyle.6  This  idea  they  have  differently  followed  and  with  various 
success.  In  contrast  with  their  writing,  the  style  of  Pope,7  of 
Johnson,8  of  Gibbon,9  looks  cold  and  pedantic.  This  writing  is 
blood-warm.  Man  is  surprised  to  find  that  things  near  are  not 
less  beautiful  and  wondrous  than  things  remote.  The  near  ex- 
plains the  far.  The  drop  is  a  small  ocean.  A  man  is  related  to 
all  nature.  This  perception  of  the  worth  of  the  vulgar  is  fruitful 

1  Oliver  Goldsmith  (1728-74),  Irish  poet,  historian,  and  novelist.     The 
charm  of  his  poetry  lies  in  the  fact  that  he  enlists  simple  and  universal  feel- 
ings in  behalf  of  the  moral  principle  he  seeks  to  establish.     His  best  known 
poem  is  The  Deserted  Village,  and  his  famous  and  only  novel,  The  Vicar  of 
Wakefield. 

2  Robert  Burns  (1759-96),  Scottish  poet,  the  poet  of  the  people  and  of 
homely  human  nature.     Tarn  O'Shanter,  and  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night 
are  his  most  noted  poems. 

3  William  Cowper  (1731-1800),  English  poet  of  simple  human  affections. 
He  is  best  known  by  The  Task,  and  Table  Talk. 

4  Johann  Wolfgang  von  Goethe  (1749-1832),  Germany's  greatest  philo- 
sophical poet.     His  masterpieces  are  Faust,  and  Wilhelm  Meister. 

5  William  Wordsworth  (1770—1850),  English  poet  of  nature  and  of  man. 
His  longest  poems  are  The  Prelude,  and  The  Excursion. 

6  Thomas  Carlyle  (1795-1881),  British  essayist  and  historian,  noted  for 
his  deep  insight  into  the  nature  of  things.      His  most  famous  works  are 
History  of  the  French  Revolution,  and  Sartor  Resartus. 

7  Alexander  Pope  (1688-1744),  English  poet.     Pope  was  a  critical  poet 
of  no  great  originality.      He  cast  other  men's  thoughts  into  finished  verse. 
His  most  noted  works  are  the  Essay  on  Man,  and  the  Dunciad. 

8  Samuel  Johnson  (1709-84),  English  miscellaneous  writer,  author  of  the 
didactic  novel  Rasselas  and  of  the  Dictionary  of  the  English  Language.     He 
was  a  man  of  wonderful  conversational  powers,  and  his   language  is  con- 
densed and  well-balanced  like  Pope's. 

9  Edward  Gibbon  (1737-94),  English  historian.     His  language  is  elab- 
orate but  he  displays  little  sympathy  with  humanity.     His  great  work  is  The 
Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire. 


44  EMERSON. 

in  discoveries.  Goethe,  in  this  very  thing  the  most  modern  of 
the  moderns,  has  shown  us,  as  none  ever  did,  the  genius  of  the 
ancients. 

There  is  one  man  of  genius,  who  has  done  much  for  this 
philosophy  of  life,  whose  literary  value  has  never  yet  been  rightly 
estimated  ;  —  I  mean  Emanuel  Swedenborg.1  The  most  imagi- 
native of  men,  yet  writing  with  the  precision  of  a  mathematician, 
he  endeavored  to  ingraft  a  purely  philosophical  Ethics  on  the 
popular  Christianity  of  his  time.  Such  an  attempt,  of  course, 
must  have  difficulty,  which  no  genius  could  surmount.  But  he 
saw  and  showed  the  connection  between  nature  and  the  affec- 
tions of  the  soul.  He  pierced  the  emblematic  or  spiritual  char- 
acter of  the  visible,  audible,  tangible  world.  Especially  did  his 
shade-loving  muse2  hover  over  and  interpret  the  lower  parts  of  / 
I  nature ;  he  showed  the  mysterious  bond  that  allies  moral  evil  to 
1  the  foul  material  forms,  and  has  given  in  epical  parables3  a  the- 
y  ory  of  insanity,  of  beasts,  of  unclean  and  fearful  things. 
\^Another  sign  of  our  times,  also  marked  by  an  analogous  polit- 
ical movement,  is  the  new  importance  given  to  the  single  person. 
Everything  that  tends  to  insulate  the  individual,  —  to  surround 
him  with  barriers  of  natural  respect,  so  that  each  man  shall  feel 
the  world  is  his,  and  man  shall  treat  with  man  as  a  sovereign 
state  with  a  sovereign  state ;  —  tends  to  true  union  as  well  as 
greatness.  "  I  learned,"  said  the  melancholy  Pestalozzi,4  "  that 
no  man  in  God's  wide  earth  is  either  willing  or  able  to  help  any 

1  Emanuel    Swedenborg   (1688-1772),    founder    of  the   New  Jerusalem 
Church.      He  first  applied  himself  to  the  problem  of  discovering  the  nature 
of  the  soul  and  spirit  by  anatomical  studies,  but  a  change  came  over  him 
which  made  of  the  scientific  inquirer  a  supernatural  prophet. 

2  An  inspiring  power. 

3  An  epic  is  a  poem  about  heroic  or  great  events  ;  a  parable  is  a  moral 
fable  or  an  allegory ;  hence,  allegorical  relations  of  great  events  or  things. 

4  Johann  Heinrich  Pestalozzi  (1746-1827),  Swiss  educational  reformer, 
and  author  of  Leonard  and  Gertrude.     He  was  deeply  in  earnest  in  his  work 
and  spent  his  life  with  his  pupils,  sharing  in  their  sufferings  as  well  as  in 
their  play. 


THE  AMERICAN  SCHOLAR.  45 

other  man."  Help  must  come  from  the  bosom  alone.  The 
scholar  is  that  man  who  must  take  up  into  himself  all  the  ability 
of  the  time,  all  the  contributions  of  the  past,  all  the  hopes  of  the 
future.  He  must  be  an  university  of  knowledges.  If  there  be 
one  lesson  more  than  another,  which  should  pierce  his  ear,  it  is, 
The  world  is  nothing,  the  man  is  all ;  in  yourself  is  the  law  of  all 
nature,  and  you  know  not  yet  how  a  globule  of  sap  ascends ;  in 
yourself  slumbers  the  whole  of  Reason ;  it  is  for  you  to  know 
all,  it  is  for  you  to  dare  all.  Mr.  President  and  Gentlemen, 
this  confidence  in  the  unsearched  might  of  man  belongs,  by  all 
motives,  by  all  prophecy,  by  all  preparation,  to  the  American 
Scholar.  We  have  listened  too  long  to  the  courtly  muses  of 
Europe.  The  spirit  of  the  American  freeman  is  already  suspected 
to  be  timid,  imitative,  tame.  Public  and  private  avarice  make 
the  air  we  breathe  thick  and  fat.  The  scholar  is  decent,  indo- 
lent, complaisant.  See  already  the  tragic  consequence.  The 
mind  of  this  country,  taught  to  aim  at  low  objects,  eats  upon 
itself.  There  is  no  work  for  any  but  the  decorous  and  the  com- 
plaisant. Youn^fmen  of  the  fairest  promise,  who  begin  life  upon 
our  shores,  inflated  by  the  mountain  winds,  shined  upon  by  all 
the  stars  of  God,  find  the  earth  below  not  in  unison  with  these,  — 
but  are  hindered  from  action  by  the  disgust  which  the  principles 
on  which  business  is  managed  inspire,  and  turn  drudges,  or  die 
of  disgust, — some  of  them  suicides.  What  is  the  remedy?  They 
did  not  yet  see,  and  thousands  of  young  men  as  hopeful  now 
crowding  to  the  barriers  for  the  career,  do  not  yet  see,  that,  if  the 
single  man  plant  himself  indomitably  on  his  instincts,  and  there 
abide,  the  huge  world  will  come  round  to  him.  Patience,  —  pa- 
tience ; — with  the  shades1  of  all  the  good  and  great  for  company ; 
and  for  solace,  the  perspective  of  your  own  infinite  life  ;  and  for 
work,  the  study  and  the  communication  of  principles,  the  making 
those  instincts  prevalent,  the  conversion  of  the  world.  Is  it  not 

1  Spirits  or  spiritual  influence ;  so  called  because  it  was  formerly  believed 
that  the  soul,  after  its  separation  from  the  body,  was  perceptible  to  the  sight, 
but  not  to  the  touch,  in  which  respect  it  resembled  a  shadow  or  shade. 


46  EMERSON. 

the  chief  disgrace  in  the  world,  not  to  be  an  unit ;  —  not  to  be 
reckoned  one  character ;  —  not  to  yield  that  peculiar  fruit  which 
each  man  was  created  to  bear,  but  to  be  reckoned  in  the  gross, 
in  the  hundred,  or  the  thousand,  of  the  party,  the  section,  to 
which  we  belong ;  and  our  opinion  predicted  geographically,  as 
the  north,  or  the  south?  Not  so,  brothers  and  friends,  —  please 
God,  ours  shall  not  be  so.  We  will  walk  on  our  own  feet ;  we 
will  work  with  our  own  hands ;  we  will  speak  our  own  minds. 
The  study  of  letters  shall  be  no  longer  a  name  for  pity,  for  doubt, 
and  for  sensual  indulgence.  The  dread  of  man  and  the  love  of 
man  shall  be  a  wall  of  defense  and  a  wreath  of  joy  around  all. 
A  nation  of  men  will  for  the  first  time  exist,  because  each  believes 
himself  inspired  by  the  Divine  Soul  which  also  inspires  all  men. 


SELF-RELIANCE. 

"Ne  te  qucesiveris  extra." l 


11  MAN  is  his  own  star;  and  the  soul  that  can 
Render  an  honest  and  a  perfect  man, 
Commands  all  light,  all  influence,  all  tate ; 
Nothing  to  him  falls  early  or  too  late. 
Our  acts  our  angels  are,  or2  good  or  ill, 
Our  fatal  shadows  that  walk  by  us  still." 

Ep.  to  BEAUMONT  and  FLETCHER'S  Honest  Man's  Fortune. 

1  "  Do  not  seek  for  anything  outside  of  thyself." 

2  Whether. 


47 


CAST  the  bantling  on  the  rocks, 
Suckle  him  with  the  she-wolfs  teat  i 
Wintered  with  the  hawk  and  fox, 
Power  and  speed  be  hands  and  feet. 


SELF-RELIANCE. 

I  READ  the  other  day  some  verses  written  by  an  eminent 
painter  which  were  original  and  not  conventional.  The  soul 
always  hears  an  admonition  in  such  lines,  let  the  subject  be  what 
it  may.  The  sentiment  they  instill  is  of  more  value  than  any 
thought  they  may  contain.  To  believe  your  own  thought,  to 
believe  that  what  is  true  for  you  in  your  private  hearths  true  for 
all  men,  —  that  is  genius.  Speak  your  latent  conviction,  and  it 
shall  be  the  universal  sense ; 1  for  the  inmost  in  due  time  becomes 
the  outmost, — and  our  first  thought  is  rendered  back  to  us  by  the 
trumpets  of  the  Last  Judgment.  Familiar  as  the  voice  of  the 
mind  is  to  each,  the  highest  merit  we  ascribe  to  Moses,  Plato,2 
and  Milton3  is,  that  they  set  at  naught  books  and  traditions,  and 
spoke  not  what  men,  but  what  they  thought.  A  man  should 
learn  to  detect  and  watch  that  gleam  of  light  which  flashes 
across  his  mind  from  within,  more  than  the  luster  of  the  firma- 
ment4 of  bards  and  sages.  Yet  he  dismisses  without  notice  his 
thought,  because  it  js_his.  In  every  work  of  genius  we  recognize 
our  own  rejected  thoughts :  they  come  back  to  us  with  a  certain 
alienated  majesty.  Great  works  of  art  have  no  more  affecting 
lesson  for  us  than  this.  They  teach  us  to  abide  by  our  spon- 
taneous impression  with  good-humored  inflexibility  then  most5 
when  the  whole  cry  of  voices  is  on  the  other  side.  Else,  to-mor- 

1  Opinion.  2  See  Note  2,  p.  29. 

3  John  Milton  (1608—74),  one  of  the  greatest  and  most  original  of  English 
poets,  author  of  Paradise  Lost. 

4  The  heavens  or  canopy  in  which  the  stars  appear  to  be  placed ;  hence, 
to  carry  out  the  metaphor,  the  firmament,  rather  than  the  world,  of  bards 
and  sages.  5  "  Then  most,"  i.e.,  most  at  that  time. 

4  49 


50  EMERSON. 

row  a  stranger  will  say  with  masterly  good  sense  precisely  what 
we  have  thought  and  felt  all  the  time,  and  we  shall  be  forced  to 
take  with  shame  our  own  opinion  from  another. 

There  is  a  time  in  every  man's  education  when  he  arrives  at 
the  conviction  that  envy  is  ignorance  ;  that  imitation  is  suicide ; 
that  he  must  take  himself  for  better-for  worse,  as  his  portion ; 
that  though  the  wide  universe  is  full  of  good,  no  kernel  of  nour- 
ishing corn  can  come  to  him  but  through  his  toil  bestowed  on 
that  plot  of  ground  which  is  given  to  him  to  till.  The  power 
which  resides  in  him  is  new  in  nature,  and  none  but  he  knows 
what  that  is  which  he  can  do,  nor  does  he  know  until  he  has 
tried.  Not  for  nothing /one  face,  one  character,  one  fact,  makes 
much  irmoressipn  on  him,  and  another  none.  This  sculpture l  in 
the  memory  is  not  without  preestablished  harmony.  The  eye 
was  placed  where  one  ray  should  fall,  that  it  might  testify  of  that 
particular  ray.  We  but  half  express  ourselves,  and  are  ashamed 
of  that  divine  idea  which  each  of  us  represents.  It  may  be 
safely  trusted  as  proportionate  and  of  good  issues,  so  2  it  be  faith- 
fully imparted,  but  God  will  not  have  his  work  made  manifest 
by  cowards.  A  man  is  relieved  and  gay  when  he  has  put  his 
heart  into  his  work  and  done  his  best ;  but  what  he  has  said  or 
done  otherwise,  shall  give  him  no  peace.  It  is  a  deliverance 
which  does  not  deliver.  In  the  attempt  his  genius  deserts  him ; 
no  muse  befriends ;  no  invention,  no  hope. 

Trust  thyself:  every  heart  vibrates  to  that  iron  string.  Ac- 
cept the  place  the  divine  providence  has  found  for  you, /the  so- 
ciety of  your  contemporaries,  the  connection  of  events.  Great 
men  have  always  done  so,  and  confided  themselves  childlike  to 
the  genius  of  their  age,  betraying  their  perception  that  the  abso- 
lutely trustworthy  was  seated  at  their  heart,  working  through 
their  hands,  predominating  in  all  their  being.  And  we  are  now 
men,  and  must  accept  in  the  highest  mind  the  same  transcendent 

1  Image. 

2  "  Proportionate,"  etc.,  i.e.,  of  correct  proportions  and  of  good  results, 
so  long  as. 


SELF-RE  LI  A  NCE.  5 1 

destiny ;  and  not  minors  and  invalids  in  a  protected  corner,  not 
cowards  fleeing  before  a  revolution,  but  guides,  redeemers,  and 
benefactors,  obeying  the  Almighty  effort,  and  advancing  on 
Chaos1  and  the  Dark. 

What  pretty  oracles  nature  yields  us  on  this  text,  in  the  face 
and  behavior  of  children,  babes,  and  even  brutes!  That  divided 
and  rebel  mind,  that  distrust  of  a  sentiment  because  our  arith- 
metic has  computed  the  strength  and  means  opposed  to  our  pur- 
pose, these 2  have  not.  Their  mind  being  whole,  their  eye  is  as 
yet  unconquered,  and  when  we  look  in  their  faces,  we  are  dis- 
concerted. Infancy  conforms  to  nobody :  all  conform  to  it,  so 
that  one  babe  commonly  makes  four  or  five  3  out  of  the  adults 
who  prattle  and  play  to  it.  So  God  has  armed  youth  and  puber- 
ty4 and  manhood  no  less  with  its  own  pjouancy  and  charm,  and 
made  it  enviable  and  gracious  and  its'craims  not  to  be  put  by, 
if  it  will  stand  by  itself.  Do  not  think  the  youth  has  no  force, 
because  he  cannot  speak  to  you  and  me.  Hark!  in  the  next 
room  his  voice  is  sufficiently  clear  and  emphatic.  It  seems  he 
knows  how  to  speak  to  his  contemporaries.  Bashful  or  bold, 
then,  he  will  know  how  to  make  us  seniors  very  unnecessary. 

The  nonchalance5  of  boys  who  are  sure  of  a  dinner,  and 
would  disdain  as  much  as  a  lord  to  do  or  say  aught  to  conciliate 
one,  is  the  healthy  attitude  of  human  nature.  A  boy  is  in  the 
pajlpr  what  the  pjrtis  in  the  playhouse;6  independent,  irresponsi- 
ble, looking  out  from  his  corner  on  such  people  and  facts  as  pass 
by,  he  tries  and  sentences  them  on  their  merits,  in  the  swift, 

1  The  confused  or  formless   elementary  state  in  which  the  universe  is 
supposed  to  have  existed  before  order  was  developed;  hence,  disorder  in 
general. 

2  Children,  babes,  and  brutes.  3  Supply  "  babes." 
4  The  age  of  maturity.                  5  Indifference. 

6  In  the  early  theaters  the  floor  of  the  house,  below  the  level  of  the  stage, 
was  Icnown  as  the  pit.  The  seats  in  this  part  were  the  cheapest  in  the  house, 
and  the  people  who  assembled  there  were  of  a  class  who  did  not  care  much 
what  others  thought  of  them,  but  shouted  and  stamped  their  applause  and 
hissed  their  disapproval,  as  the  occasion  seemed  to  demand. 


52  EMERSON. 

summary  way  of  boys,  as  good,  bad,  interesting,  silly,  eloquent, 
troublesome.  He  cumbers  himself  never  about  consequences, 
about  interests ;  he  gives  an  independent,  genuine  verdict.  You 
must  court  him:  he_does  not  court  you.  But  the  man  is,  as  it 
were,  clapped  into  jail  by  his  consciousness.  As  soon  as  he  has 
once  acted  or  spoken  with  eclat1  he  is  a  committed  person, 
watched  by  the  sympathy  or  the  hatred  of  hundreds,  whose 
affections  must  now  enter  into  his  account.  There  is  no  Ljthe"2 
for  this.  Ah,  that  he  could  pass  again  into  his  neutrality!  Who3 
can  thus  avoid  all  pledges,  and  having  observed,  observe  again 
from  the  same  unaffected,  unbiased,  unbribable,  unaffrighted  inno- 
cence, must  always  be  formidable.  He  would  utter  opinions  on  all 
passing  affairs,  which  being  seen  to  be  not  private,  but  necessary, 
would  sink  like  darts  into  the  ear  of  men,  and  put  them  in  fear. 

These  are  the  voices  which  we  hear  in  solitude,  but  they  grow 
faint  and  inaudible  as  we  enter  into  the  world.  Society  every- 
where is  in  conspiracy  against  the  manhood  of  every  one  of  its 
members.  Society  is  a  joint-stock  company,  in  which  the  mem- 
bers agree,  for  the  better  securing  of  his  bread  to  each  share- 
holder, to  surrender  the  liberty  and  culture  of  the  eater.  The 
virtue  in  most  request  is  conformity.  Self^eliance  is  its  aversion. 
It  loves  not  realities  and  creators,  but  names  and  customs. 

Whoso  would  be  a  man  must  be  a  nonconformist.4  He  who 
would  gather  immortal  palms5  must  not  be  hindered  by  the  name 
of  goodness,  but  must  explore  if  it  be  goodness.6  Nothing  is  at 

1  A  French  word  (pronounced  a  Ida/)  meaning  brilliancy  of  success  which 
attracts  applause. 

2  Oblivion ;  from  the  ancient  Greek  myth  of  Lethe,  the  personification  of 
oblivion,  or  from  the  river  Lethe,  in  the  lower  world,  of  which  the  souls  of 
the  departed  drank  and  forgot  all  they  had  done  in  the  upper  world. 

3  He  who. 

4  One  who  does  not  conform  to  established  opinions  or  creeds. 

5  Undying  fame.     A  branch  or  leaf  of  the  palm  was  anciently  worn  as  a 
symbol  of  victory  or  rejoicing. 

6  "  Explore,"  etc.,  i.e.,  himself  investigate  if  the  thing  so  called  be  really 
goodness. 


SELF-RELIANCE.  53 

last  sacred  but  the  integrity  of  your  own  mind.  Absolve  you 
to  yourself,1  and  you  shall  have  the  suffrage2  of  the  world.  I 
remember  an  answer  which  when  quite  young  I  was  prompted 
to  make  to  a  valued  adviser,  who  was  wenit  to  importune  me 
with  the  dear  old  doctrines  of  the  church.  On  my  saying, 
What  have  I  to  do  with  the  sacredness  of  traditions,  if  I  live 
wholly  from  within?  my  friend  suggested,  —  "But  these  impulses 
may  be  from  below,  not  from  above."  I  replied,  "They  do  not 
seem  to  me  to  be  such ;  but  if  I  am  the  Devil's  child,  I  will  live 
then  from  the  Devil."  No  law  can  be  sacred  to  me  but  that  of 
my  nature.  Good  and  bad  are  but  names  very  readily  transfer- 
able to  that  or  this ;  the  only  right  is  what  is  after  my  constitu- 
tion, the  only  wrong  what  is  against  it.  A  man  is  to  carry  him- 
.  /—..-&  &  _  _  fWfMC/ 

self  in  the  presence  of  all  opposition,  as  if  everything  were  titular 

and  ephemeral3  but  he.  I  am  ashamed  to  think  how  easily  we 
capitulate  to  badges  and  names,  to  large  societies  and  dead  insti- 
tutions. Every  decent  and  well-spoken  individual  affects  and 
sways  me  more  than  is  right.  I  ought  to  go  upright  and  vital,4 
and  speak  the  rude  truth  in  all  ways.  If  malice  and  vanity  wear 
the  coat  of  philanthropy,  shall  that  pass?5  If  an  angry  bigot 
assumes  this  bountiful  cause  of  Abolition,  and  comes  to  me  with 
his  last  news  from  Barbadoes,6  why  should  I  not  say  to  him, 
"Go  love  thy  infant;  love  thy  wood-chopper:  be  good-natured 
and  modest :  have  that  grace  ;  and  never  varnish  your  hard,  un- 
charitable ambition  with  this  incredible  tenderness  for  black  folk 
a  thousand  miles  off.  Thy  love  'afar  is  spite  at  home."  Rough 
and  graceless  would  be  such  greeting,  but  truth  is  handsomer 
than  the  affectation  of  love.  Your  goodness  must  have  some 

1  "Absolve,"  etc.,  i.e.,  justify  yourself.  2  Approval. 

3  "  Titular  and  ephemeral,"   i.e.,   existing  in  name  only  and  of  short 
duration.  4  "  I  ought,"  etc.,  i.e.,  I  ought  to  act  as  if  I  were  alive. 

5  Be  tolerated. 

6  An  island  in  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  belonging  to  Great  Britain,  one  of  the 
Lesser  Antilles.     The  inhabitants  are  mainly  negroes  who,  prior  to  1834, 
were  slaves. 


54  EMERSON. 

edge  to  it,  —  else  it  is  none.  The  doctrine  of  hatred  must  be 
preached  as  the  counteraction  of  the  doctrine  of  love,  when  that 
pules  and  whines.  I  shun  father  and  mother  and  wife  and 
brother,  when  my  genius  calls  me.  I  would  write  on  the  lintels 
of  the  doorpost,  Whim.1  I  hope  it  is  somewhat  better  than 
whim  at  last,  but  we  cannot  spend  the  day  in  explanation.  Ex- 
pect me  not  to  show  cause  why  I  seek  or  why  I  exclude  com- 
pany. Then,  again,  do  not  tell  me,  as  a  good  man  did  to-day,  of 
my  obligation  to  put  all  poor  men  in  good  situations.  Are  they 
my  poor?  I  tell  thee,  thou  foolish  philanthropist,  that  I  grudge 
the  dollar,  the  dime,  the  cent,  I  give  to  such  men  as  do  not  be- 
long to  me  and  to  whom  I  do  not  belong.  There  is  a  class  of 
persons  to  whom  by  all  spiritual  affinity  I  am  bought  and  sold ; 
for  them  I  will  go  to  prison,  if  need  be ;  but  your  miscellaneous 
popular  charities ;  the  education  at  college  of  fools  j  the  build- 
ing of  meetinghouses  to  the  vain  end  to  which  many  now  stand ; 
alms  to  sots ;  and  the  thousand-fold  Relief  Societies ;  —  though  I 
confess  with  shame  I  sometimes  succumb  and  give  the  dollar,  it 
is  a  wicked  dollar  which  by  and  by  I  shall  have  the  manhood 
to  withhold. 

Virtues  are,  in  the  popular  estimate,  rather  the  exception  than 
the  rule.  There  is  the  man  and  his  virtues.  Men  do  what  is 
called  a  good  action,  as  some  piece  of  courage  or  charity,  much 
as  they  would  pay  a  fine  in  expiation  of  daily  nonappearance  on 
parade.  Their  works  are  done  as  an  apology  or  extenuation  of 
their  living  in  the  world,  —  as  invalids  and  the  insane  pay  a  high 
board.  Their  virtues  are  penances.  I  do  not  wish  to  expiate, 
but  to  live.  My  life  is  for  itself  and  not  for  a  spectacle.  I  much 
prefer  that  it  should  be  of  a  lower  strain,  so  it  be  genuine  and 
equal,  than  that  it  should  be  glittering  and  unsteady.  I  wish  it 
to  be  sound  and  sweet,  and  not  to  need  diet  and  bleeding.2  I 

1  Emerson  means  to  convey  the  idea  that  he  would  rather  have  his  actions 
ascribed  to  mere  caprice  than  to  be  compelled  to  spend  his  time  in  explaining 
them. 

2  A  use  of  the  sign  for  the  thing  signified.     "  Not  to  need  diet  and  bleed- 


SELF-RE  LI  A  NCE.  5  5 

ask  primary  evidence  that  you  are  a  man,  and  refuse  this  appeal 
from  the  man  to  his  actions.  I  know  that  for  myself , it  makes 
no  difference  whether  I  do  or  forbear  those  actions  which  are 
reckoned  excellent.  I  cannot  consent  to  pay  for  a  privilege 
where  I  have  intrinsic  right.  Few  and  mean  as  my  gifts  may 
be,  I  actually  am,  and  do  not  need  for  my  own  assurance  or 
the  assurance  of  my  fellows  any  secondary  testimony. 

What  I  must  do  is  all  that  concerns  me,  not  what  the  people 
think.  This  rule,  equally  arduous  in  actual  and  in  intellectual 
life,  may  serve  for  the  whole  distinction  between  greatness  and 
meanness.  It  is  the  harder,  because  you  will  always  find  those 
who  think  they  know  what  is  your  duty  better  than  you  know  it. 
It  is  easy  in  the  world  to  live  after  the  world's  opinion ;  it  is  easy 
in  solitude  to  live  after  our  own ;  but  the  great  man  is  he  who 
in  the  midst  of  the  crowd  keeps  with  perfect  sweetness  the  inde- 
pendence of  solitude. 

The  objection  to  conforming  to  usages  that  have  become  dead 
to  you  is,  that  it  scatters  your  force.  It  loses  your  time  and  blurs 
the  impression  of  your  character.  If  you  maintain  a  dead 
church,  contribute  to  a  dead  Bible-society,  vote  with  a  great 
party  either  for  the  government  or  against  it,  spread  your  table 
like  base  housekeepers,  —  under  all  these  screens  I  have  difficulty 
to  detect  the  precise  man1  you  are.  And,  of  course,  so  much  force 
is  withdrawn  from  your  proper  life.  But  do  your  work,  and  I 
shall  know  you.  Do  your  work,  and  you  shall  reenforce  yourself. 
A  man  must  consider  what  a  blindman's-buff  is  this  game  of 
conformity.  If  I  know  your  sect,  I  anticipate  your  argument.  I 
hear  a  preacher  announce  for  his  text  and  topic  the  expediency 
of  one  of  the  institutions  of  his  church.  Do  I  not  know  before- 
hand that  not  possibly  can  he  say  a  new  and  spontaneous  word? 
Do  I  not  know  that,  with  all  this  ostentation  of  examining  the 

ing "  means  not  to  be  unhealthy,  a  special  course  of  diet  being  frequently 
prescribed  in  cases  of  illness,  and  bleeding  having  been  one  of  the  first 
resources  of  the  old  medical  practitioners. 

1  "  The  precise  man,"  i.e.,  precisely  what  kind  of  a  man. 


5  &  EMERSON. 

grounds  of  the  institution,  he  will  do  no  such  thing?  Do  I  not 
know  that  he  is  pledged  to  himself  not  to  look  but  at  one  side,  — 
the  permitted  side,  not  as  a  man,  but  as  a  parish  minister?  He 
is  a  retained  attorney,  and  these  airs  of  the  bench1  are  the  emp- 
tiest affectation.  Well,  most  men  have  bound  their  eyes  with 
one  or  another  handkerchief,2  and  attached  themselves  to  some 
one  of  these  communities  of  opinion.  This  conformity  makes 
them  not  false  in  a  few  particulars,  authors  of  a  few  lies,  but  false 
in  all  particulars.  Their  every  truth  is  not  quite  true.  Their 
two  is  not  the  real  two,  their  four  not  the  real  four;  so  that 
every  word  they  say  chagrins  us,  and  we  know  not  where  to  begin 
to  set  them  right.  Meantime  nature  is  not  slow  to  equip  us  in 
the  prison-uniform  of  the  party  to  which  we  adhere.  We  come 
to  wear  one  cut  of  face  and  figure,  and  acquire  by  degrees  the 
gentlest  asinine3  expression.  There  is  a  mortifying  experience 
in  particular,  which  does  not  fail  to  wreak  itself  also  in  the  gen- 
eral history;  I  mean  "the  foolish  face  of  praise,"  the  forced 
smile  which  we  put  on  in  company  where  we  do  not  feel  at  ease 
in  answer  to  conversation  which  does  not  interest  us.  The  mus- 
cles, not  spontaneously  moved,  but  moved  by  a  low  usurping 
willfulness,  grow  tight  about  the  outline  of  the  face  with  the 
most  disagreeable  sensation. 

For  nonconformity  the  world  whips  you  with  its  displeasure. 
And  therefore  a  man  must  know  how  to  estimate  a  sour  face. 
The  bystanders  look  askance  on  him  in  the  public  street  or  in 
the  friend's  parlor.  If  this  aversation4  had  its  origin  in  con- 
tempt and  resistance  like  his  own,  he  might  well  go  home  with  a 
sad  countenance ;  but  the  sour  faces  of  the  multitude,  like  their 
sweet  faces,  have  no  deep  cause,  but  are  put  on  and  off  as  the 
wind  blows  and  a  newspaper  directs.  Yet  is  the  discontent  of 
the  multitude  more  formidable  than  that  of  the  senate  and  the 

1  Court  of  justice. 

2  An  extension  of  the  metaphor  of  the  blindman's-buff. 

3  Like  an  ass,  or  stupid. 

4  A  turning  away  from. 


SELF-RE  LI  A  NCE.  5  ^ 

college.  It  is  easy  enough  for  a  firm  man  who  knows  the  world 
to  brook  the  rage  of  the  cultivated  classes.  Their  rage  is  deco- 
rous and  prudent,  for  they  are  timid  as  being  very  vulnerable 
themselves.  But  when  to  their  feminine1  rage  the  indignation 
of  the  people  is  added,  when  the  ignorant  and  the  poor  are 
aroused,  when  the  unintelligent  brute  force  that  lies  at  the  bot- 
tom of  society  is  made  to  growl  and  mow,2  it  needs  the  habit 
of  magnanimity  and  religion  to  treat  it  godlike  as*  a  trifle  of  no 
concernment. 

The  other  terror  that  scares  us  from  self-trust  is  our  consist- 
ency ;  a  reverence  for  our  past  act  or  word,  because  the  eyes  of 
others  have  no  other  data  for  computing  our  orbit3  than  our  past 
acts,  and  we  are  loth  to  disappoint  them. 

But  why  should  you  keep  your  head  over  your  shoulder? 
-'  Why  d[a<g  about  this  corpse  of  your  memory,  lest  you  contradict 
some\v4**tt7you  have  stated  in  this  or  that  public  place?  Sup- 
pose you  should  contradict  yourself ;  what  then?  It  seems  to 
be  a  rule  of  wisdom  never  to  rely  on  your  memory  alone,  scarcely 
even  in  acts  of  pure  memory,  but  to  bring  the  past  for  judgment 
into  the  thousand-eyed5  present,  and  live  ever  in  a  new  day.  In 
your  metaphysics  you  have  denied  personality  to  the  Deity ;  yet 
when  the  devout  motions  of  the  soul  come,  yield  to  them  heart 
and  life,  though  they  should  clothe  God  with  shape  and  color. 
Leave  your  theory,  as  Joseph6  his  coat  in  the  hand  of  the  harlot, 
and  flee. 

A  foolish  consistency  is  the  hobgoblin  of  little  minds,  adored 
by  little  statesmen  and  philosophers  and  divines.  With  consist- 
ency a  great  soul  has  simply  nothing  to  do.  He  may  as  well 
concern  himself  with  his  shadow  on  the  wall.  Speak  what  you 
think  now  in  hard7  words,  and  to-morrow  speak  what  to-morrow 

1  Feminine,  because  decorous  and  timid.  2  To  make  grimaces. 

3  Course  or  path  in  life.  4  Something. 

5  Thousand-eyed,  because  there  may  be  thousands  of  witnesses  to  things 
that  happen  in  the  present,  while  for  the  past  we  must  rely  on  memory  and 
history.  6  Gen.  xxxix.  12.  7  Strong  and  enduring. 


ap, 


58  EMERSON. 

thinks  in  hard  words  again,  though  it  contradict  everything  you 
said  to-day.  —  "Ah,  so  you  shall  be  sure  to  be  misunderstood." — - 
Is  it  so  bad,  then,  to  be  misunderstood?  Pythagoras  was  mis- 
understood, and  Socrates,  and  Jesus,  and  Luther,  and  Coper- 
nicus, and  Galileo,  and  Newton,1  and  every  pure  and  wise  spirit 
that  ever  took  flesh.  To  .be  great  is  to  be  misunderstood*. 

I  suppose  no  man  can  violate  his  nature.  All  the  sallies2  of 
t  his  will  are  rounded  in  by  the  law  of  his  being,  as  the  inequalities 
of  Andes  and  Himmaleh3  are  insignificant  in  the  curve  of  the 
sphere.  Nor  does  it  matter  how  you  gauge  and  try  him.  A 
character  is  like  an  acrostic  or  Alexandrian  stanza ;  —  read  it  for- 
ward, backward,  or  across,  it  still  spells  the  same  thing.4  In  this 
pleasing,  contrite  wood-life  which  God  allows  me,  let  me  record 

1  Pythagoras  (560-510  B.C.),  a  famous  Greek  philosopher,  and  leader  in 
a  movement  for  ethical  and  religious  reform.  He  died  in  banishment. 
Socrates  (470-399  B.  C. ),  one  of  the  most  famous  of  Athenian  philosophers 
and  teachers  of  truth,  virtue,  and  self-control,  was  ridiculed,  imprisoned,  and 
died  a  martyr;  Jesus  was  crucified;  Martin  Luther  (1483-1546),  a  German 
Augustine  monk,  protested  against  certain  abuses  that  had  grown  up  within 
the  Catholic  Church,  and  became  the  leader  of  the  Reformation  or  religious 
revolution.  He  was  excommunicated  by  the  church  and  outlawed  by  the 
state.  Nicholas  Copernicus  (1473-1543),  a  Polish  astronomer,  was  the 
originator  of  the  theory  that  the  planets  revolve  around  the  sun.  This  theory 
was  opposed  to  the  prejudices  and  dogmas  of  the  time  and  was  not  generally 
accepted  until  many  years  after  his  death.  Galileo,  or  Galilei  (1564-1642), 
was  a  famous  Italian  astronomer,  mathematician,  physicist,  and  inventor  of 
the  refracting  telescope  by  means  of  which  he  discovered  the  mountainous 
character  of  the  moon,  the  phases  of  the  planet  Venus,  the  satellites  of  Jupi- 
ter, and  the  rings  of  Saturn.  His  physical  discoveries  were  heard  with  in- 
credulity by  the  physicists  of  his  time,  and  he  was  subjected  to  persecution 
and  imprisonment  by  the  Inquisition  because  of  them.  Sir  Isaac  Newton 
(1642-1727),  the  great  English  philosopher  and  mathematician  who  discov- 
ered the  law  of  gravitation.  His  teachings  were  hotly  contested  and  only 
adopted  after  many  years.  2  Digressions. 

3  Andes  and  Himmaleh  (Himalaya),  the  great  mountain  ranges  of  South 
America  and  Asia  respectively. 

4  It  is  the  palindrome,  not  the  acrostic  or  Alexandrian  stanza,  which  has 
this  peculiarity. 


SELF-RELIANCE.  59 

day  by  day  my  honest  thought  without  prospect  or  retrospect,1  and, 
I  cannot  doubt,  it  will  be  found  symmetrical,  though  I  mean  it  not, 
and  see  it  not.  My  book  should  smell  of  pines  and  resound  with  the 
hum  of  insects.  The  swallow  over  my  window  should  interweave 
that  thread  or  straw  he  carries  in  his  bill  into  my  web  also.2  We  pass 
for  what  we  are.  Character  teaches  above  our  wills,  Men  imagine 
that  they  communicate  their  virtue  or  vice  only  by  overt  actions, 
and  do  not  see  that  virtue  or  vice  emit  a  breath  every  moment. 

There  will  be  an  agreement  in  whatever  variety  of  actions,  so 
they  be  each  honest  and  natural  in  their  hour.  For  of  one  will, 
the  actions  will  be  harmonious,  however  unlike  they  seem.  These 
varieties  are  lost  sight  of  at  a  little  distance,  at  a  little  height  of 
thought.  One  tendency  unites  them  all.  The  voyage  of  the 
best  ship  is  a  zigzag  line  of  a  hundred  tacks.3  See  the  line  from 
a  sufficient 'distance,  and  it  straightens  itself  to  the  average  tend- 
ency. Your  genuine  action  will  explain  itself,  and  will  explain 
your  other  genuine  actions.  Your  conformity  explains  nothing. 
Act  singly,  and  what  you  have  already  done  singly  will  justify 
you  now.  Greatness  appeals  to  the  future.  If  I  can  be  firm 
enough  to-day  to  do  right,  and  scorn  eyes,  I  must  have  done 
so  much  right  before  as  to  defend  me  now.  Be  it  how  it  will, 
do  right  now.  Always  scorn  appearances,  and  you  always  may. 
The  force  of  character  is  cumulative.  All  the  foregone  days  of 
virtue  work  their  health  into  this.  What  makes  the  majesty  of 
the  heroes  of  the  senate  and  the  field,  which  so  fills  the  imagina- 
tion ?  The  consciousness  of  a  train  of  great  days  and  victories 
behind.  They  shed  an  united  light  on  the  advancing  actor. 
He  is  attended  as  by  a  visible  escort  of  angels.  That  is  it  which 
throws  thunder  into  Chatham's4  voice,  and  dignity  into  Wash- 

1  "  Without  prospect,"  etc.,  i.e.,  without  looking  backward  or  forward. 

2  Emerson  means  to  express  by  this  whole  passage  that  our  lives  should 
be  natural,  not  artificial  or  conventional. 

3  The  short,  oblique  courses  back  and  forth  by  which  a  sailing  vessel  ad- 
vances against  a  headwind. 

*  William  Pitt,  Earl  of  Chatham  (1708-78),  one  of  the  most  distinguished 


60  EMERSON. 

ington's  port,  and  America  into  Adams's1  eye.  Honor  is  vener- 
able to  us  because  it  is  no  eph&meris.2  It  is  always  ancient 
virtue.  We  worship  it  to-day  because  it  is  not  of  to-day.  We 
love  it  and  pay  it  homage,  because  it  is  not  a  trap  for  our  love 
and  homage,  but  is  self-dependent,  self-derived,  and  therefore  of 
an  old  immaculate  pedigree,  even  if  shown  in  a  young  person. 
..xi  I  hope  in  these  days  we  have  heard  the  last  of  conformity  and 
consistency.  Let  the  words  be  gazetted3  and  ridiculous  hence- 
forward. Instead  of  the  gong  for  dinner,  let  us  hear  a  whistle 
from  the  Spartan  fife.4  Let  us  never  bow  and  apologize  more. 
A  great  man  is  coming  to  eat  at  my  house.  I  do  not  wish  to 
please  him ;  I  wish  that  he  should  wish  to  please  me.  I  will 
stand  here  for  humanity,  and  though  I  would  make  it  kind,  I 
would  make  it  true.  Let  us  affront  and  reprimand  the  smooth 
mediocrity  and  squalid  contentment  of  the  times,  and*  hurl  in  the 
face  of  custom,  and  trade,  and  office,  the  fact  which  is  the  upshot 
of  all  history,  that  there  is  a  great  responsible  Thinker  and  Actor 
working  wherever  a  man  works ;  that  a  true  man  belongs  to  no 
other  time  or  place,  but  is  the  center  of  things.  Where  he  is, 
there  is  nature.  He  measures  you,  and  all  men,  and  all  events. 
Ordinarily,  everybody  in  society  reminds  us  of  somewhat  else,  or 
of  some  other  person.  Character,  reality,  reminds  you  of  nothing 
else  ;  it  takes  place  of  the  whole  creation.  The  man  must  be  so 
much,  that  he  must  make  all  circumstances  indifferent.  Every 

of  English  statesmen.     He  was  possessed  of  great  eloquence  and  all  his 
actions  were  impelled  by  deep  patriotic  feeling. 

1  Samuel  Adams  (1722-1803),  American  statesman.     Adams  was  a  con- 
spicuous agitator  of  the  popular  cause  in  America,  a  prominent  member  of 
the  Continental   Congress   at   Philadelphia,  and  one  of  the  signers  of  the 
Declaration  of  Independence.     He  is  called  the  "  Father  of  the  Revolution." 

2  A  journal  or  account  of  daily  transactions. 

3  Officially  announced. 

4  The  Spartans  of  ancient  Greece  were  especially  noted  for  their  courage 
and  valor.     The  signal  of  attack  in  battle  was  given  by  the  music  of  the  fife 
or  flute.     Hence,  "  instead  of  the  gong,"  etc.,  instead  of  a  mere  summons  to 
dinner  let  us  have  something  that  will  inspire  us  to  bravery. 


SELF-RELIANCE.  61 

*. 

true  man  is  a  cause,  a  country,  and  an  age ;  requires  infinite 
spaces  and  numbers  and  time  fully  to  accomplish  his  design ;  — 
and  posterity  seem  to  follow  his  steps  as  a  train  of  clients.  A 
man  Caesar1  is  born,  and  for  ages  after  we  have  a  Roman  Em- 
pire. Christ  is  born,  and  millions  of  minds  so  grow  and  cleave 
to  his  genius,  that  he  is  confounded  with  virtue  and  the  possible 2 
of  man.  An  institution  is  the  lengthened  shadow  of  one  man ; 
as,  Monachism,  of  the  Hermit  Antony;3  the  Reformation,  of 
Luther;  Quakerism,  of  Fox;4  Methodism,  of  Wesley;5  Aboli- 
tion, of  Clarkson.6  Scipio,  Milton  called  "  the  height  of 
Rome ; " 7  and  all  history  resolves  itself  very  easily  into  the  biog- 
raphy of  a  few  stout  and  earnest  persons. 

Let  a  man  then  know  his  worth,  and  keep  things  under  his 
feet.  Let  him  not  peep  or  steal,  or  skulk  un  and  down  with  the 
air  of  a  charity-boy,  a  bastard,  or  an  interloper,  in  the  world 
which  exists  for  him.  But  the  man  in  the  street,  finding  no 
worth  in  himself  which  corresponds  to  the  force  which  built  a 

1  Julius  Caesar  (100-44  B.C.),  the  great  Roman  general,  one  of  the  great- 
est the  world  has  ever  seen,  also  preeminent  as  a  statesman  and  as  an  orator. 
After  subduing  Gaul  he  crossed  the  Rubicon  against  his  enemies  in  Rome. 
He  became  undisputed  master  of  the  known  world,  was  made  imperator  for 
life,  and  sought  to  promote  the  true  interests  of  his  country.    He  laid  a  strong 
foundation  to  the  imperial  power  of  his  successors. 

2  "  Possible,"  i.e.,  that  which  it  is  possible  for  man  to  accomplish. 

3  Saint  Antony  or  Anthony  (250-356),  a  voluntary  hermit  of  Upper  Egypt, 
founder  of  Monachism,  the  doctrine  of  a  life  of  religious  seclusion,  asceticism, 
and  devotion. 

4  George  Fox   (1624-91),    an    Englishman,   founder   of  the   Society  of 
Friends,  or  Quakers. 

5  John  Wesley  (1703-91),  an  Englishman,  founder  of  the  religious  sect 
of  the  Methodists. 

6  Thomas  Clarkson   (1760-1846),   English  philanthropist.      He  devoted 
his  life  to  the  abolition  of  the  slave  trade  and  the  relief  of  the  oppressed. 
Through  his  influence  Parliament  declared  the  slave  trade  illegal  in  1807. 

7  See  Milton's  Paradise  Lost,   Book  IX.,  line   510.     Publius   Cornelius 
Africanus  Scipio  Major  (237  or  234-184  B.C.),  the  greatest  Roman  general 
before  Caesar.    By  his  defeat  of  Hannibal  he  ended  the  long  struggle  between 
Rome  and  Carthage. 


62  EMERSON. 

tower  or  sculptured  a  marble  god,  feels  poor  when  he  looks  on 
these.  To  him  a  palace,  a  statue,  a  costly  book,  have  an  alien 
and  forbidding  air,  much  like  a  gay  equipage,  and  seem  to  say 
like  that,  "Who  are  you,  Sir?"  Yet  they  all  are  his,  suitors  for 
his  notice,  petitioners  to  his  faculties  that  they  will  come  out  and 
take  possession.  The  picture  waits  for  my  verdict :  it  is  not 
to  command  me,  but  I  am  to  settle  its  claims  to  praise.  That 
popular  fable  of  the  sot  who  was  picked  up  dead  drunk  in  the 
street,  carried  to  the  duke's  house,  washed  and  dressed  and  laid 
in  the  duke's  bed,  and,  on  his  waking,  treated  with  all  obsequious 
ceremony  like  the  duke,  and  assured  that  he  had  been  insane,1 
owes  its  popularity  to  the  fact,  that  it  symbolizes  so  well  the  state 
of  man,  who  is  in  the  world  a  sort  of  sot,  but  now  and  then 

wakes  up,  exercises  his  reason,  and  finds  himself  a  true  prince. 

•    'Blrtki  .f^*  • 

Our  reading  is  mendicant  and  sycophantic.     In  history,  our 

imagination  plays  us  false.  Kingdom  and  lordship,  power  and 
estate,  are  a  gaudier  vocabulary  than  private  John  and  Edward 
in  a  small  house  and  common  day's  work ;  but  the  things  of  life 
are  the  same  to  both  ;  the  sum  total  of  both  is  the  same.  Why 

ft  €• Cf  ft  t  £ 

all  this  deference  to  Alfred,2  and  Scanderbeg,3  and  Gustavus?4 
Suppose  they  were  virtuous  ;  did  they  wear  out  virtue  ?  As  great 
a  stake  depends  on  your  private  act  to-day,  as  followed  their  pub- 
lic and  renowned  steps.  When  private  men  shall  act  with  origi- 
nal views,  the  luster  will  be  transferred  from  the  actions  of  kings 
to  those  of  gentlemen, 
k  The  world  has  been  instructed  by  its  kings,  who  have  so  mag- 

1  It  is  difficult  to  say  where  this  fable  originated.     See  the  story  of  "  The 
Sleeper  Awakened  "  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  and  the  Introduction  to  Shake- 
speare's Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

2  See  Note  4,  p.  34. 

3  Scanderbeg  (George  Castriota,  1410-67),  an  Albanian  chief  who  abjured 
Islamism,  and  successfully  conducted  several  crusades  against  the  Turks. 

4  Gustavus  II.  (Gustavus  Adolphus,  1594-1632),  King  of  Sweden.    Law, 
order,  and  national  spirit  were  encouraged  during  his  reign,  schools  were 
everywhere  established,  roads  made,  and  foreign  trade  extended.     He  even 
established  model  farms. 


SELF-RELIANCE.  63 

netized  the  eyes  of  nations.  It  has  been  taught  by  this  colossal 
symbol  the  mutual  reverence  that  is  due  from  man  to  man.  The 
joyful  loyalty  with  which  men  have  everywhere  suffered  the  king, 
the  noble,  or  the  great  proprietor  to  walk  among  them  by  a  law 
of  his  own,  make  his  own  scale  of  men  and  things,  and  reverse 
theirs,  pay  for  benefits  not  with  money  but  with  honor,  and 
represent  the  law  in  his  person,  was  the  hieroglyphic1  by  which 
they  obscurely  signified  their  consciousness  of  their  own  right 
and  comeliness,  the  right  of  every  man. 

The  magnetism  which  all  original  action  exerts  is  explained 
when  we  inquire  the  ^reason  of  self-trust.  Who  is  the  Trustee  ? 
What  is  the  abongiriaP  Self,  on  which  a  universal  reliance  may 
be  grounded?  What  is  the  nature  and  power  of  that  science- 
baffling  star,  without  parallax,3  without  calculable  elements, 
which  shoots  a  ray  of  beauty  even  into  trivial  and  impure  ac- 
tions, if  the  least  mark  of  independence  appear?  The  inquiry 
leads  us  to  that  source,  at  once  the  essence  of  genius,  of  virtue, 
and  of  life,  which  we  call  Spontaneity  or  Instinct.  We  denote 
this  primary  wisdom  as  Intuition,  whilst  all  later  teachings  are 
tuitions.  In  that  deep  force,  the  last  fact  behind  which  analysis 
cannot  go,  all  things  find  their  common  origin.  For,  the  sense  of 
being  which  in  calm  hours  rises,  we  know  not  how,  in  the  soul, 
is  not  diverse  from  things,  from  space,  from  light,  from  time, 
from  man,  but  one  with  them,  and  proceeds  obviously  from  the 
same  source  whence  their  life  and  being  also  proceed.  We  first 
share  the  life  by  which  things  exist,  and  afterwards  see  them  as 
appearances  in  nature,  and  forget  that  we  have  shared  their 
cause.  Here  is  the  fountain  of  action  and  of  thought.  Here 
are  the  lungs4  of  that  inspiration  which  giveth  man  wisdom,  and 

1  Hidden  sign.  2  Primitive,  first. 

3  Apparent  displacement  of  an  object  as  observed  from  different  points  of 
view.    The  parallax  of  a  heavenly  body  is  used  in  estimating  its  distance,  and 
decreases  as  the  distance  increases ;  hence,  the  exact  location  of  a  star  so  far 
distant  as  to  have  no  parallax  cannot  be  calculated. 

4  The  source  from  which  it  draws  breath ;  hence,  the  origin. 


64  EMERSON. 

which  cannot  be  denied  without  impiety  and  atheism.  We  lie 
in  the  lap  of  immense  intelligence,  which  makes  us  receivers  of 
its  truth  and  organs  of  its  activity.  When  we  discern  justice, 
when  we  discern  truth,  we  do  nothing  of  ourselves,  but  allow  a 
passage  to  its  beams.  If  we  ask  whence  this  comes,  if  we  seek 
to  pry  into  the  soul  that  causes,  all  philosophy  is  at  fault.  Its 
presence  or  its  absence  is  all  we  can  affirm.  Every  man  discrim- 
inates between  the  voluntary  acts  of  his  mind,  and  his  involun- 
tary perceptions,  and  knows  that  to  his  involuntary  perceptions 
a  perfect  faith  is  due.  He  may  err  in  the  expression  of  them, 
but  he  knows  that  these  things  are  so,  like  day  and  night,  not  to 
be  disputed.  My  willful  actions  and  acquisitions  are  but  roving ; 

—  the  idlest  reverie,  the  faintest  native  emotion,  command  my 
curiosity  and  respect.     Thoughtless  people  contradict  as  readily 
the  statement  of  perceptions  as  of  opinions,  or  rather  much  more 
readily ;    for,  they  do   not  distinguish   between  perception   and 
notion.     They  fancy  that  I  choose  to  see   this  or  that  thing. 
But  perception  is  not  whimsical,  but  fatal.     If  I  see  a  trait,  my 
children  will  see  it  after  me,  and  in  course  of  time,  all  mankind, 

—  although  it  may  chance  that  no  one  has  seen  it  before  me. 
For  my  perception  of  it  is  as  much  a  fact  as  the  sun. 

The  relations  of  the  soul  to  the  divine  spirit  are  so  pure,  that  it 
is  profane  to  seek  to  interpose  helps.  It  must  be  that  when  God 
speaketh  he  should  communicate,  not  one  thing,  but  all  things ; 
should  fill  the  world  with  his  voice ;  should  scatter  forth  light, 
nature,  time,  souls,  from  the  center  of  the  present  thought ;  and 
new  date  and  new  create  the  whole.  Whenever  a  mind  is  sim- 
ple, and  receives  a  divine  wisdom,  old  things  pass  away,  —  means, 
teachers,  texts,  temples  fall ;  it  lives  now,  and  absorbs  past  and 
future  into  the  present  hour.  All  things  are  made  sacred  by 
relation  to  it,  —  one  as  much  as  another.  All  things  are  dissolved 
to  their  center  by  their  cause,  and,  in  the  universal  miracle,  petty 
and  particular  miracles  disappear.  If,  therefore,  a  man  claims  to 
know  and  speak  of  God,  and  carries  you  backward  to  the  phrase- 
ology of  some  old  moldered  nation  in  another  country,  in  another 


SELF-RELIANCE.  &5 

world,  believe  him  not.  Is  the  acorn  better  than  the  oak  which 
is  its  fullness  and  completion?  Is  the  parent  better  than  the 
child  into  whom  he  has  cast  his  ripened  being?  Whence,  then, 
this  worship  of  the  past?  The  centuries  are  conspirators  against 
the  sanity  and  authority  of  the  soul.  Time  and  space  are  but 
physiological  colors  which  the  eye  makes,  but  the  soul  is  light ; 
where  it  is,  is  day ;  where  it  was,  is  night ;  and  history  is  an  im- 
pertinence and  an  injury,  if  it  be  anything  more  than  a  cheerful 
apologue  or  parable l  of  my  being  and  becoming. 

Man  is  timid  and  apologetic ;  he  is  no  longer  upright ;  he 
dares  not  say  "  I  think,"  "  I  am,"  but  quotes  some  saint  or  sage. 
He  is  ashamed'  before  the  blade  of  grass  or  the  blowing  rose. 
These  roses  under  my  window  make  no  reference  to  former  roses 
or  to  better  ones ;  they  are  for  what  they  are ;  they  exist  with 
God  to-day.  There  is  no  time  to  them.  There  is  simply  the 
rose ;  it  is  perfect  in  every  moment  of  its  existence.  Before  a 
leaf  bud  has  burst,  its  whole  life  acts ;  in  the  full-blown  flower 
there  is  no  more  ;  in  the  leafless  root  there  is  no  less.  Its  nature 
is  satisfied,  and  it  satisfies  nature,  in  all  moments  alike.  But  man 
postpones  or  remembers ;  he  does  not  live  in  the  present,  but 
with  reverted2  eye  laments  the  past,  or,  heedless  of  the  riches 
that  surround  him,  stands  on  tiptoe  to  foresee  the  future.  He 
cannot  be  happy  and  strong  until  he  too  lives  with  nature  in  the 

•esent,  above  time.3 

This  should  be  plain  enough.  Yet  see  what  strong  intellects 
dare  not  yet  hear  God  himself,  unless  he  speak  the  phraseology 
of  I  know  not  what  David,  or  Jeremiah,  or  Paul.  We  shall  not 
always  set  so  great  a  price  on  a  few  texts,  on  a  few  lives.  We 
are  like  children  who  repeat  by  rote  the  sentences  of  grandames4 
and  tutors,  and,  as  they  grow  older,  of  the  men  of  talents  and 
character  they  chance  to  see,  —  painfully  recollecting  the  exact 
words  they  spoke  ;  afterwards,  when  they  come  into  the  point  of 

l  See  Note  3,  p.  44.  2  Turned  back. 

3  That  is,  apart  from  time  past  or  time  to  come. 

4  Old  women  ;   grandmothers. 


66  EMERSON. 

view  which  those  had  who  uttered  these  sayings,  they  under- 
stand them,  and  are  willing  to  let  the  words  go  ;  for,  at  any  time, 
they  can  use  words  as  good  when  occasion  comes.  If  we  live 
truly,  we  shall  see  truly.  It  is  as  easy  for  the  strong  man  to  be 
strong,  as  it  is  for  the  weak  to  be  weak.  When  we  have  new  per- 
ception, we  shall  gladly  disburden  the  memory  of  its  hoarded  treas- 
ures as  old  rubbish.  When  a  man  lives  with  God,  his  voice  shall  be 
as  sweet  as  the  murmur  of  the  brook  and  the  rustle  of  the  corn. 

And  now  at  last  the  highest  truth  on  this  subject  remains  un- 
said ;  probably  cannot  be  said ;  for  all  that  we  say  is  the  far-off 
remembering  of  the  intuition.  That  thought,  by  what  I  can  now 
nearest  approach  to  say  it,  is  this.  When  good  is  near  you, 
when  you  have  life  in  yourself,  it  is  not  by  any  known  or  accus- 
tomed way ;  you  shall  not  discern  the  footprints  of  any  other ; 
you  shall  not  see  the  face  of  man ;  you  shall  not  hear  any 
name; — the  way,  the  thought,  the  good,  shall  be  wholly  strange 
and  new.  It  shall  exclude  example  and  experience.  You  take 
the  way  from  man,  not  to  man.  All  persons  that  ever  existed 
are  its  forgotten  ministers.  Fear  and  hope  are  alike  beneath  it. 
There  is  somewhat  low  even  in  hope.  In  the  hour  of  vision, 
there  is  nothing  that  can  be  called  gratitude,  nor  properly  joy. 
The  soul  raised  over  passion  beholds  identity  and  eternal  causa- 
tion, perceives  the  self-existence  of  Truth  and  Right,  and  calms 
itself  with  knowing  that  all  things  go  well.  Vast  spaces  of 
nature,  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  the  South  Sea, — long  intervals  of 
time,  years,  centuries,  —  are  of  no  account.  This  which  I  think 
and  feel  underlay  every  former  state  of  life  and  circumstances, 
as  it  does  underlie  my  present,  and  what  is  called  life,  and  what 
is  called  death. 

Life  only  avails,  not  the  having  lived.  Power  ceases  in  the 
instant  of  repose ;  it  resides  in  the  moment  of  transition  from  a 
past  to  a  new  state,  in  the  shooting  of  the  gulf,  in  the  darting  to 
an  aim.  This  one  fact  the  world  hates,  that  the  soul  becomes; 
for  that  forever  degrades  the  past,  turns  all  riches  to  poverty,  all 
reputation  to  a  shame,  confounds  the  saint  with  the  rogue,  shoves 


SELF-RELIANCE.  67 


Jesus  and  Judas  equally  aside.  Why,  then,  do  we  prate  of  self- 
reliance?  Inasmuch  as  the  soul  is  present,  there  will  be  power 
not  confident  but  agent.1  To  talk  of  reliance  is  a  poor  external 
way  of  speaking.  Speak  rather  of  that  which  relies,  because  it 
works  and  is.  Who  has  more  obedience  than  I  masters  me, 
though  he  should  not  raise  his  finger.  Round  him  I  must  re- 
volve by  the  gravitation  of  spirits.  We  fancy  it  rhetoric,  when 
we  speak  of  eminent  virtue.  We  do  not  yet  see  that  virtue  is 
Height,  and  that  a  man  or  a  company  of  men,  plastic  and  per- 
meable to  principles,  by  the  law  of  nature  must  overpower  and 
ride  2  all  cities,  nations,  kings,  rich  men,  poets,  who  are  not. 

This  is  the  ultimate  fact  which  we  so  quickly  reach  on  this,  as 
I  on  every  topic,  the  resolution  of  all  into  the  ever-blessed  ONE. 
Self-existence  is  the  attribute  of  the  Supreme  Cause,  and  it  con- 
stitutes the  measure  of  good  by  the  degree  in  which  it  enters  into 
all  lower  forms.  All  things  real  are  so  by  so  much  virtue  as 
they  contain.  Commerce,  husbandry,  hunting,  whaling,  war,  elo- 
quence, personal  weight,  are  somewhat,  and  engage  my  respect 
as  examples  of  its  presence  and  impure  action.  I  see  the  same 
law  working  in  nature  for  conservation  and  growth.  Power  is 
in  nature  the  essential  measure  of  right.  Nature  suffers  nothing 
to  remain  in  her  kingdoms  which  cannot  help  itself.  The  gen- 
esis and  maturation  of  a  planet,  its  poise  and  orbit,  the  bended 
tree  recovering  itself  from  the  strong  wind,  the  vital  resources  of 
every  animal  and  vegetable,  are  demonstrations  of  the  self-suf- 
ficing, and  therefore  self-relying  soul. 

Thus  all  concentrates  :  let  us  not  rove  ;  let  us  sit  at  home  with 
the  cause.  Let  us  stun  and  astonish  the  intruding  rabble  of 
men  and  books  and  institutions,  by  a  simple  declaration  of  the 
divine  fact.  Bid  the  invaders  take  the  shoes  from  off  their  feet, 
for  God  is  here  within.3  Let  our  simplicity  judge  them,  and  our 

1  Power  not  reliant  but  active. 

2  "  Overpower,"  etc.,  i.e.,  have  power  over  and  rule. 

3  The  Mohammedans  are  obliged  to  take  off  their  shoes  before  they  are 
permitted  to  enter  a  mosque. 


68  EMERSON. 

docility  to  our  own  law  demonstrate  the  poverty  of  nature  and 
fortune  beside  our  native  riches. 

But  now  we  are  a  mob.  Man  does  not  stand  in  awe  of  man, 
nor  is  his  genius  admonished  to  stay  at  home,  to  put  itself  in 
communication  with  the  internal  ocean,  but  it  goes  abroad  to 
beg  a  cup  of  water  of  the  urns  of  other  men.  We  must  go  alone. 
I  like  the  silent  church  before  the  service  begins,  better  than  any 
preaching.  How  far  off,  how  cool,  how  chaste  the  persons  look, 
begirt  each  one  with  a  precinct  or  sanctuary!  So  let  us  always 
sit.  Why  should  we  assume  the  faults  of  our  friend,  or  wife,  or 
father,  or  child,  because  they  sit  around  our  hearth,  or  are  said 
to  have  the  same  blood?  All  men  have  my  blood,  and  I  have 

P££*i5kt*£X* 

all  men's.1  Not  for  that  will  I  adopt  their  petulance  or  folly, 
even  to  the  extent  of  being  ashamed  of  it.  But  your  isolation 
must  not  be  mechanical,  but  spiritual,  that  is,  must  be  elevation. 
At  times  the  whole  world  seems  to  be  in  conspiracy  to  importune 
you  with  emphatic  trifles.  Friend,  client,  child,  sickness,  fear, 
want,  charity,  all  knock  at  once  at  thy  closet  door,  and  say,— 
"Come  out  unto  us."  But  keep  thy  state;  come  not  into  their 
confusion.  The  power  men  possess  to  annoy  me,  I  give  them 
by  a  weak  curiosity.  No  man  can  come  near  me  but  through 
my  act.  "  What  we  love  that  we  have,  but  by  desire. we  bereave 
ourselves  of  the  love." 

If  we  cannot  at  once  rise  to  the  sanctities  of  obedience  and 
faith,  let  us  at  least  resist  our  temptations ;  let  us  enter  into  the 
state  of  war,  jand  wake  Thor  and  Woden,2  courage  and  constancy, 
in  our  Saxon  breasts.  This  is  to  be  done  in  our  smooth  times 
by  speaking  the  truth.  Check  this  lying  hospitality  and  lying 
affection.  Live  no  longer  to  the  expectation  of  these  deceived 
and  deceiving  people  with  whom  we  converse.  Say  to  them, 
O  father,  O  mother,  O  wife,  O  brother,  O  friend,  I  have  lived 

1  An  allusion  to  the  fact  that  all  men  are  brothers. 

2  In  Norse  mythology  the  god  Woden  was  held  to  be  all-powerful  and 
noted  for  his  constancy,  while  his  eldest  son  Thor,  the  god  of  thunder,  was 
the  personification  of  strength  and  courage. 


SELF-RELIANCE.  69 

with  you  after  appearances  hitherto.  Henceforward  I  am  the 
truth's.  Be  it  known  unto  you  that  henceforward  I  obey  no  law 
less  than  the  eternal  law.  I  will  have  no  covenants  but  proximi- 
ties.1 I  shall  endeavor  to  nourish  my  parents,  to  support  my 
family,  to  be  the  chaste  husband  of  one  wife,  —  but  these  rela- 
tions I  must  fill  after  a  new  and  unprecedented  way.  I  appeal 
from  your  customs.  I  must  be  myself.  I  cannot  break  myself 
any  longer  for  you,  or  you.2  If  you  can  love  me  for  what  I  am, 
we  shall  be  the  happier.  If  you  cannot,  I  will  still  seek  to  de- 
serve that  you  should.  I  will  not  hide  my  tastes  or  aversions. 
I  will  so  trust  that  what  is  deep  is  holy,  that  I  will  do  strongly 
before  the  sun  and  moon  whatever  inly3  rejoices  me,  and  the 
heart  appoints.  If  you  are  noble,  I  will  love  you ;  if  you  are 
not,  I  will  not  hurt  you  and  myself  by  hypocritical  attentions. 
If  you  are  true,  but  not  in  the  same  truth  with  me,  cleave  to 
your  companions ;  I  will  seek  my  own.  I  do  this  not  selfishly, 
but  humbly  and  truly.  It  is  alike  your  interest,  and  mine,  and 
all  men's,  however  long  we  have  dwelt  in  lies,  to  live  in  truth. 
Does  this  sound  harsh  to-day?  You  will  soon  love  what  is  dic- 
tated by  your  nature  as  well  as  mine,  and,  if  we  follow  the  truth, 
it  will  bring  us  out  safe  at  last.  —  But  so  may  you  give  these 
friends  pain.  Yes,  but  I  cannot  sell  my  liberty  and  my  power, 
to  save  their  sensibility.  Besides,  all  persons  have  their  moments 
of  reason,  when  they  look  out  into  the  region  of  absolute  truth ; 
then  will  they  justify  me,  and  do  the  same  thing. 

The  populace  think  that  your  rejection  of  jpopular  standards 
is  a  rejection  of  all  standard,  and  mere  anjtinbrmanjism  ;4  and  the 
bold  sensualist  will  use  the  name  of  philosophy  to  gild5  his 

1  "  I  will,"  etc.,  i.e.,  I  will  agree  to  govern  my  conduct  only  according  to 
the  dictates  of  my  inner  consciousness,  of  my  soul's  intuitive  sense  of  right. 

2  You  in  the  singular,  i.e.,  the  particular  person  whom  Emerson  imagines 
himself  as  addressing.  3  Within  the  soul. 

4  The  doctrine  that  Christians  are  freed  from  the  moral  law  as  set  forth  in 
the  Old  Testament  by  the  new  dispensation  of  grace  in  the  Gospel. 

5  Cover  or  conceal. 


70  EMERSON. 

crimes.  But  the  law  of  consciousness  abides.  There  are  two 
confessionals,  in  one  or  the  other  of  which  we  must  be  shriven.1 
You  may  fulfill  your  round  of  duties  by  clearing  yourself  in  the 
direct,  or  in  the  reflex  way.  Consider  whether  you  have  satisfied 
your  relations  to  father,  mother,  cousin,  neighbor,  town,  cat,  and 
dog ;  whether  any  of  these  can  upbraid  you.  But  I  may  also 
neglect  this  reflex  standard,  and  absolve  me  to  myself.  I  have 
my  own  stern  claims  and  perfect  circle.  It  denies  the  name  of 
duty  to  many  offices  that  are  called  duties.  But  if  I  can  dis- 
charge its  debts,  it  enables  me  to  dispense  with  the  popular  code. 
If  any  one  imagines  that  this  law  is  lax,  let  him  keep  its  com- 
mandment one  day. 

And  truly  it  demands  something  godlike  in  him  who  has  cast 
off  the  common  motives  of  humanity,  and  has  ventured  to  trust 
himself  for  a  taskmaster.  High  be  his  heart,  faithful  his  will, 
clear  his  sight,  that  he  may  in  good  earnest  be  doctrine,  society, 
law,  to  himself,  that  a  simple  purpose  may  be  to  him  as  strong 
as  iron  necessity  is  to  others!  • 

If  any  man  consider  the  present  aspects  of  what  is  called  by 
distinction  society,  he  will  see  the  need  of  these  ethics.  The 
sinewr  and  heart  of  man  seem  to  be  drawn  out,  and  we  are  be- 
come timorous,  desponding  whimperers.  We  are  afraid  of  truth, 
afraid  of  fortune,  afraid  of  death,  and  afraid  of  each  other.  Our 
age  yields  no  great  and  perfect  persons.  We  want  men  and 
women  who  shall  renovate  life  and  our  social  state,  but  we  see 
that  most  natures  are  insolvent,  cannot  satisfy  their  own  wants, 
have  an  ambition  out  of  all  proportion  to  their  practical  force, 
and  do  lean  and  beg  day  and  night  continually.  Our  house- 
keeping is  mendicant,  our  arts,  our  occupations,  our  marriages, 
our  religion,  we  have  not  chosen,  but  society  has  chosen  for  us. 
We  are  parlor  soldiers.  We  shun  the  rugged  battle  of  fate,  where 
strength  is  born. 

If  our  young  men  miscarry  in  their  first  enterprises,  they  lose 
all  heart.  If  the  young  merchant  fails,  men  say  he  is  ruined.  If 

1  Confessed. 


SELF-RELIANCE.  ^  I 

the  finest  genius  studies  at  one  of  our  colleges,  and  is  not  installed 
in  an  office  within  one  year  afterwards  in  the  cities  or  suburbs  of 
Boston  or  New  York,  it  seems  to  his  friends  and  to  himself  that 
he  is  right  in  being  disheartened,  and  in  complaining  the  rest  of 
his  life.  A  sturdy  lad  from  New  Hampshire  or  Vermont,  who 
in  turn  tries  all  the  professions,  who  teams  it.  farms  it,1  peddles, 
keeps  a  school,  preaches,  edits  a  newspaper,  goes  to  Congress, 
buys  a  township,  and  so  forth,  in  successive  years,  and  always, 
like  a  cat,  falls  on  his  feet,  is  worth  a  hundred  of  these  city  dolls. 
He  walks  abreast  with  his  days,  and  feels  no  shame  in  not  "  study- 
ing a  profession,"  for  he  does  not  postpone  his  life,  but  lives 
already.  He  has  not  one  chance,  but  a  hundred  chances.  Let 
a  Stoic2  open  the  resources  of  man,  and  tell  men  they  are  not 
leaning  willows,  but  can  and  must  detach  themselves ;  that  with 
the  exercise  of  self-trust,  new  powers  shall  appear ;  that  a  man 
is  the  word  made  flesh,3  born  to  shed  healing  to  the  nations, 
that  he  should  be  ashamed  of  our  compassion,  and  that  the  mo- 
ment he  acts  from  himself,  tossing  the  laws,  the  books,  idolatries, 
and  customs  out  of  the  window,  we  pity  him  no  more,  but  thank 
and  revere  him,  —  and  that  teacher  shall  restore  the  life  of  man 
to  splendor,  and  make  his  name  dear  to  all  history. 

It  is  easy  to  see  that  a  greater  self-reliance  must  work  a  revo- 
lution in  all  the  offices  and  relations  of  men ;  in  their  religion ;  in 
their  education ;  in  their  pursuits ;  their  modes  of  living ;  their 
association  ;  in  their  property  ;  in  their  speculative  views. 

i.  In  what  prayers  do  men  allow  themselves!4  That  which 
they  call  a  holy  office  is  not  so  much  as  brave  and  manly.  Prayer 

1  "  Teams  it,"  etc.,  i.e.,  drives  a  team  or  engages  in  farming  as  a  profes- 
sion. 

2  A  disciple  of  the  philosopher  Zeno,  who  founded  a  sect  and  taught  that 
men  should  be  free  from  passion,  unmoved  by  joy  or  grief,  and  should  sub- 
mit  uncomplainingly  to  the  inevitable;  hence,  the  name  is  applied  to  any 
one  who  professes  to  be  indifferent  to  pleasure  or  pain. 

3  See  John  i.  14. 

4  "  In  what  prayers,"  etc.,  i.e.,  in  what  prayers  do  men  allow  themselves 
to  indulge. 


72  EMERSON. 

looks  abroad  and  asks  for  some  foreign  addition  to  come  through 
some  foreign  virtue,  and  loses  itself  in  endless  mazes  of  natural 
and  supernatural,  and  mediatorial  and  miraculous.  Prayer  that 
craves  a  particular  commodity, —  anything  less  than  all  good,  —  is 
vicious.  Prayer  is  the  contemplation  of  the  facts  of  life  from  the 
highest  point  of  view.  It  is  the  soliloquy  of  a  beholding  and 
jubilant  soul.  It  is  the  spirit  of  God  pronouncing  his  works  good. 
But  prayer  as  a  means  to  effect  a  private  end  is  meanness  and 
theft.  It  supposes  dualism1  and  not  unity  in  nature  and  con- 
sciousness. As  soon  as  the  man  is  at  one  with  God,  he  will  not 
beg.  He  will  then  see  prayer  in  all  action.  The  prayer  of  the 
farmer  kneeling  in  his  field  to  weed  it,  the  prayer  of  the  rower 
kneeling  with  the  stroke  of  his  oar,  are  true  prayers  heard  through- 
out nature,  though  for  cheap  ends.  Caratach,  in  Fletcher's  "  Bon- 
duca,"  2  when  admonished  to  inquire  the  mind  of  the  god  Audate, 

replies, — 

"  His  hidden  meaning  lies  in  our  endeavors; 
Our  valors  are  our  best  gods." 

Another  sort  of  false  prayers  are  our  regrets.  Discontent  is 
the  want  of  self-reliance  :  it  is  infirmity  of  will.  Regret  calami- 
ties, if  you  can  thereby  help  the  sufferer ;  if  not,  attend  your  own 
work,  and  already  the  evil  begins  to  be  repaired.  Our  sympathy 
is  just  as  base.  We  come  to  them  who  weep  foolishly,  and  sit 
down  and  cry  for  company,  instead  of  imparting  to  them  truth 
and  health  in  rough  electric  shocks,  putting  them  once  more  in 
communication  with  their  own  reason.  The  secret  of  fortune  is 
joy  in  our  hands.  Welcome  evermore  to  gods  and  men  is  the 
self -helping  man.  For  him  all  doors  are  flung  wide :  him  all 
tongues  greet,  all  honors  crown,  all  eyes  follow  with  desire.  Our 

1  A  twofold  division. 

2  Caratach,  or  Caractacus,  was  a  character  in  the  play  of  Bonduca  (another 
name  for  Boadicea),  written  by  the  English  dramatist  and  poet  John  Fletcher 
(1576-1625).     The  scene  of  the  play  is  laid  in  ancient  Britain,  where  the 
characters  were  historical.     Audate  is  another  name  for  the  Celtic  goddess 
(not  god)  Audrasta. 


SELF-RE  LI  A  NCE.  ^  3 

love  goes  out  to  him  and  embraces  him,  because  he  did  not 
need  it.  We  solicitously  and  apologetically  caress  and  celebrate 
him,  because  he  held  on  his  way  and  scorned  our  disapproba- 
tion. The  gods  love  him  because  men  hated  him.  "  To  the 
persevering  mortal,"  said  Zoroaster,1  "  the  blessed  Immortals  are 
swift." 

As  men's  prayers  are  a  disease  of  the  will,  so  are  their  creeds 
a  disease  of  the  intellect.  They  say  with  those  foolish  Israelites, 
"  Let  not  God  speak  to  us,  lest  we  die.  Speak  thou,  speak  any 
man  with  us,  and  we  will  obey."  Everywhere  I  am  hindered  of 
meeting  God  in  my  brother,  because  he  has  shut  his  own  temple 
doors,  and  recites  fables  merely  of  his  brother's,  or  his  brother's 
brother's  God.  Every  new  mind  is  a  new  classification.  If  it 
prove  a  mind  of  uncommon  activity  and  power,  a  Locke,2  a 
Lavoisier,3  a  Hutton,4  a  Bentham,5  a  Fourier,6  it  imposes  its 
classification  on  other  men,  and  lo!  a  new  system.  In  propor- 
tion to  the  depth  of  the  thought,  and  so  to  the  number  of  the 
objects  it  touches  and  brings  within  reach  of  the  pupil,  is  his 
complacency.  But  chiefly  is  this  apparent  in  creeds  and  churches, 
which  are  also  classifications  of  some  powerful  mind  acting  on 
the  elemental  thought  of  duty,  and  man's  relation  to  the  Highest. 
Such  is  Calvinism,7  Quakerism,  Swedenborgism.8  The  pupil 
takes  the  same  delight  in  subordinating  everything  to  the  new 
terminology,  as  a  girl  who  has  just  learned  botany  in  seeing  a 

1  The  founder  of  the  ancient  Persian  religion.  The  time  in  which  he  lived 
is  uncertain.  2  See  Note  2,  p.  26. 

3  Antoine  Laurent  Lavoisier  (1743-94),  illustrious  French  chemist.  He 
discovered  the  composition  of  water. 

*  James  Hutton  (1726-97),  great  Scotch  geologist.  He  wrote  the  Theory 
of  Rain,  and  Theory  of  the  Earth. 

5  Jeremy  Bentham  (1748-1832),  English  philosopher  and  reformer.      He 
devoted  himself  to  reforms  in  legislature  and  government. 

6  Fran$ois  Marie  Charles  Fourier  (1772-1837),  French  socialist. 

7  The  doctrine  of  the  followers  of  John  Calvin  (1509-64),  French  theo- 
logian. 

8  The  doctrine  taught  by  Emanuel  Swedenborg.     See  Note  I,  p.  44. 


74  EMERSON. 

new  earth  and  new  seasons  thereby.  It  will  happen  for  a  time, 
that  the  pupil  will  find  his  intellectual  power  has  grown  by  the 
study  of  his  master's  mind.  But  in  all  unbalanced  minds,  the 
classification  is  idolized,  passes  for  the  end,  and  not  for  a  speedily 
exhaustible  means,  so  that  the  walls  of  the  system  blend  to  their 
eye  in  the  remote  horizon  with  the  walls  of  the  universe ;  the 
luminaries  of  heaven  seem  to  them  hung  on  the  arch  their  master 
built.  They  cannot  imagine  how  you  aliens  have  any  right  to 
see,  —  how  you  can  see;  "It  must  be  somehow  that  you  stole 
the  light  from -JJiK."  ^  /TB^Y  do  not  vet  perceive,  that  light,  unsys- 
tematic, indomitable,  will  break  into  any  cabin,  even  into  theirs. 
Let  them  chirp  awhile  and  call  it  their  own.  If  they  are  honest 
and  do  well,  presently  their  neat  new  pinfold1  will  be  too  strait2 
and  low,  will  crack,  will  lean,  will  rot  and  vanish,  and  the  im- 
mortal light,  all  young  and  joyful,  million-orbed,  million-colored, 
will  beam  over  the  universe  as  on  the  first  morning. 

2.  It  is  for  want  of  self-culture  that  the  superstition  of  Trav- 
eling, whose  idols  are  Italy,  England,  Egypt,  retains  its  fasci- 
nation for  all  educated  Americans.  They  who  made  England, 
Italy,  or  Greece  venerable  in  the  imagination  did  so  by  sticking 
fast  where  they  were,  like  an  axis  of  the  earth.  In  manly  hours, 
we  feel  that  duty  is  our  place.  The  soul  is  no  traveler ;  the 
wise  man  stays  at  home,  and  when  his  necessities,  his  duties,  on 
any  occasion  call  him  from  his  house,  or  into  foreign  lands,  he 
is  at  home  still,  and  shall  make  men  sensible  by  the  expression  of 
his  countenance,  that  he  goes  the  missionary  of  wisdom  and  vir- 
tue,and  visits  cities  and  men  like  a  sovereign,  and  not  like  an 

•     i*  •-•'--        i  . 

interloper  or  a  valet. 

I  have  no  churlish  ..objection  to  the  circumnavigation  of  the 
globe,  for  the  purposes  of  art,  of  study,  and  benevolence,  so  that 
the  man  is  first  domesticated,  or  does  not  go  abroad  with  the 
hope  of  finding  somewhat  greater  than  he  knows.  He  who 
travels  to  be  amused,  or  to  get  somewhat  which  he  does  not 
carry,  travels  away  from  himself,  and  grows  old  even  in  youth 

l  An  inclosure  for  beasts.  2  Narrow. 


SELF-RE  LI  A  NCE.  ^  5 

among  old  things.  In  Thebes,1  in  Palmyra,2  his  will  and  mind 
have  become  old  and  dilapidated  as  they.  He  carries  ruins  to 
ruins. 

f  (  Traveling  is  a  fool's  paradise.  Our  first  journeys  discover  to 
us  the  indifference  of  places.  At  home  I  dream  that  at  Naples, 
at  Rome,  I  can  be  intoxicated  with  beauty,  and  lose  my  sadness. 
I  pack  my  trunk,  embrace  my  friends,  embark  on  the  sea,  and 
at  last  wake  up  in  Naples,  and  there  beside  me  is  the  stern  fact, 
the  sad  self,  unrelenting,  identical,  that  I  fled  from.  I  seek  the 
Vatican,3  and  the  palaces.  I  affect  to  be  intoxicated  with  sights 
and  suggestions,  but  I  am  not  intoxicated.  My  giant  goes  with 
me  wherever  I  go. 

3.  But  the  rage  of  traveling  is  a  symptom  of  a  deeper  un- 
soundness  affecting  the  whole  intellectual  action.  The  intellect 
is  vagabond,  and  our  system  of  education  fosters  restlessness. 
Our  minds  travel  when  our  bodies  are  forced  to  stay  at  home. 
We  imitate  ;  and  what  is  imitation  but  the  traveling  of  the  mind  ? 
Our  houses  are  built  with  foreign  taste  ;  our  shelves  are  garnished 
with  foreign  ornaments ;  our  opinions,  our  tastes,  our  faculties, 
lean,  and  follow  the  Past  and  the  Distant.  The  soul  created  the 
arts  wherever  they  have  flourished.  It  was  in  his  own  mind 
that  the  artist  sought  his  model.  It  was  an  application  of  Ms 
own  thought  to  the  thing  to  be  done  and  the  conditions  to  be 
observed.  And  why  need  we  copy  the  Doric4  or  the  Gothic5 
model?  Beauty,  convenience,  grandeur  of  thought,  and  quaint 
expression  are  as  near  to  us  as  to  any,  and  if  the  American 

1  The  ruined  prehistoric  city,  capital  of  Upper  Egypt. 

2  A  ruined  city,  founded  by  Solomon,  in  an  oasis  of  the  Syrian  desert,  a 
hundred  and  twenty  miles  northeast  of  Damascus. 

3  The  residence  of  the  Pope  in  Rome,  the  largest  palace  in  the  world, 
consisting  of  over  four  thousand  rooms.     It  contains  the  finest  existing  col- 
lection of  marbles,  bronzes,  frescoes,  paintings,  gems,  and  statues. 

4  A  style  of  architecture  distinguished  for  simplicity  and  strength,  which 
originated  in  Doris  in  ancient  Greece. 

5  A  style  of  architecture  derived  from  the  Goths,  with  high  and  sharply 
pointed  arches  and  clustered  columns. 


76  EMERSON. 

artist  will  study  with  hope  and  love  the  precise  thing  to  be  done 
by  him,  considering  the  climate,  the  soil,  the  length  of  the  day, 
the  wants  of  the  people,  the  habit  and  form  of  the  government, 
he  will  create  a  house  in  which  all  these  will  find  themselves 
fitted,  and  taste  and  sentiment  will  be  satisfied  also. 

Insist  on  yourself;  never  imitate.  Your  own  gift  you  can 
present  every  moment  with  the  cumulative  force  of  a  whole  life's 
cultivation ;  but  of  the  adopted  talent  of  another,  you  have  only 
an  extemporaneous,  half  possession.  That  which  each  can  do 
best,  none  but  his  Maker  can  teach  him.  No  man  yet  knows 
what  it  is,  nor  can,  till  that  person  has  exhibited  it.  Where  is 
the  master  who  could  have  taught  Shakespeare?1  Where  is  the 
master  who  could  have  instructed  Franklin,2  or  Washington,  or 
Bacon,3  or  Newton?  Every  great  man  is  a  unique.  The  Scip- 
ionism  of  Scipio  is  precisely  that  part  he  could  not  borrow. 
Shakespeare  will  never  be  made  by  the  study  of  Shakespeare. 
Do  that  which  is  assigned  you,  and  you  cannot  hope  too  much 
or  dare  too  much.  There  is  at  this  moment  for  you  an  utterance 
brave  and  grand  as  that  of  the  colossal  chisel  of  Phidias,4  or 
trowel5  of  the  Egyptians,  or  the  pen  of  Moses,  or  Dante,6  but 
different  from  all  these.  Not  possibly  will  the  ^§pul  all  rich,  all 
eloquent,  with  thousand-cloven7  tongue,  deign  to  repeat  itself; 
but  if  you  can  hear  what  these  patriarchs  say,  surely  you  can 
reply  to  them  in  the  same  pitch  of  voice ;  for  the  ear  and  the 
tongue  are  two  organs  of  one  nature.  Abide  in  the  simple  and 

1  See  Note  3,  p.  29. 

2  Benjamin  Franklin  (1706-90),  American  philosopher,  statesman,  and 
writer.      He  discovered  the  nature  of  lightning,  invented  the  lightning  rod, 
performed  important  diplomatic  services  during  the  Revolution,  and  compiled 
the  famous  Poor  Richard's  Almanac. 

3  See  Note  I,  p.  27. 

4  Phidias  (400-432  B.C.),  the  greatest  sculptor  of  Greece  if  not  of  all 
lands.  5  The  tool  with  which  they  reared  the  pyramids. 

6  Dante  Alighieri  (1265-1321),  the  greatest  Italian  poet,  author  of  the 
Inferno. 

7  Divided  into  many  parts  ;  that  is,  capable  of  speaking  in  many  ways. 


SELF-RE  LI  A  NCE.  ^  7 

noble  regions  of  thy  life,  obey  thy  heart,  and  thou  shalt  reproduce 
the  Foreworld1  again. 

//  4>  4.  As  our  Religion,  our  Education,  our  Art  look  abroad,  so 
does  our  spirit  of  society.  All  men  plume  themselves  on  the 
improvement  of  society,  and  no  man  improves. 

if  /"~  Society  never  advances.  It  recedes  as  fast  on  one  side  as  it 
gains  on  the  other.  It  undergoes  continual  changes ;  it  is  bar- 
barous, it  is  civilized,  it  is ^  christianized,  it  is  rich,  it  is  scientific ; 
but  this  change  is  not  amelioration.  For  everything  that  is 
given,  something  is  taken.  Society  acquires  new  arts,  and  loses 
old  instincts.  What  a  contrast  between  the  well-clad,  reading, 
writing,  thinking  American,  with  a  watch,  a  pencil,  and  a  bill  of 
exchange  in  his  pocket,  and  the  naked  New  Zealander,  whose 
property  is  a  club,  a  spear,  a  mat,  and  an  undivided  twentieth 
of  a  shed  to  sleep  under!  But  compare  the  health  of  the  two 
men,  and  you  shall  see  that  the  white  man  has  lost  his  aboriginal 
strength.  If  the  traveler  tell  us  truly,  strike  the  savage  with  a 
broad  ax,  and  in  a  day  or  two  the  flesh  shall  unite  and  heal  as  if 
•  you  struck  the  blow  into  soft  pitch,  and  the  same  blow  shall  send 
the  white  to  his  grave. 

The  civilized  man  has  built  a  coach,  but  has  lost  the  use  of  his 
feet.  He  is  supported  on  crutches,  but  lacks  so  much  support 
of  muscle.  He  has  a  fine  Geneva2  watch,  but  he  fails  of  the 
skill  to  tell  the  hour  by  the  sun.  A  Greenwich  nautical  almanac 3 
he  has,  and  so  being  sure  of  the  information  when  he  wants  it, 
the  man  in  the  street  does  not  know  a  star  in  the  sky.  The  sol- 


stice  he  does  not  observe;  the  equinox  he  knows  as  little;  and 
the  whole  bright  calendar  of  the  year  is  without  a  dial  in  his  mind. 
His  notebooks  impair  his  memory;  his  libraries  overload  his 
wit ;  the  insurance  office  increases  the  number  of  accidents ;  and 

1  A  previous  state  of  the  world. 

2  Geneva,    Switzerland,  at  one  time  produced  the  best  watches  in  the 
world. 

3  An  almanac  for  the  use  of  navigators  and  astronomers,  calculated  at  the 
Royal  Observatory  at  Greenwich,  England. 


78  EMERSON. 

it  may  be  a  question  whether  machinery  does  not  encumber; 
whether  we  have  not  lost  by  refinement  some  energy,  by  a  Chris- 
tianity intrenched  in  establishments  and  forms,  some  vigor  of 
wild  virtue.  For  every  Stoic  was  a  Stoic ;  but  in  Christendom 
where  is  the  Christian? 

X1  There  is  no  more  deviation  in  the  moral  standard  than  in  the 
(  standard  of  height  or  bulk.  No  greater  men  are  now  than  ever 
were.  A  singular  equality  may  be  observed  between  the  great 
men  of  the  first  and  of  the  last  ages ;  nor  can  all  the  science, 
art,  religion,  and  philosophy  of  the  nineteenth  century  avail  to 
educate  greater  men  than  Plutarch's l  heroes,  three  or  four  and 
twenty  centuries  ago.  Not  in  time  is  the  race  progressive.  Pho- 
cion,2  Socrates,  Anaxagoras,3  Diogenes,4  are  great  men,  but  they 
leave  no  class.  He  who  is  really  of  their  class  will  not  be  called 
by  their  name,  but  will  be  his  own  man,  and,  in  his  turn,  the 
founder  of  a  sect.  The  arts  and  inventions-  of  each  period  are 
only  its  costume,  and  do  not  invigorate  men.  The  harm  of  the 
improved  machinery  may  compensate  its  good.  Hudson5  and 
Bering6  accomplished  so  much  in  their  fishing  boats,  as  to  astonish 
Parry7  and  Franklin,8  whose  equipment  exhausted  the  resources 

1  A  Grecian  philosopher  living  in  the  first  century  A.D.  He  was  also  a 
prolific  writer.  His  most  noted  work  is  Parallel  Lives,  a  series  of  forty-six 
biographies  divided  into  pairs,  one  taken  from  Greek  and  one  from  Roman 
history,  and  each  accompanied  by  a  psychological  and  moral  comparison  be- 
tween the  characters  described.  2  An  Athenian  general  (402-317  B.C.). 

3  Eminent  Greek  philosopher  (500-426  B.C.).      He  maintained  the  eter- 
nity of  matter. 

4  A  famous  Greek  cynic   philosopher  (400-323   B.C.).      He  affected  a 
contempt  for  the  comforts  of  life  and  the  customs  of  the  world.     According 
to  tradition  he  lodged  in  a  tub. 

5  Henry  Hudson,  distinguished  English  discoverer,  discovered  Hudson 
River  and  Hudson  Bay. 

6  A  Danish  navigator  (1680-1741).    He  discovered  Bering  Strait  in  1728, 
and  ascertained  that  Asia  was  not  joined  to  America,  as  was  formerly  supposed. 

7  Sir  William  Edward  Parry,  English  navigator  (1790-1855).    In  1819-23 
he  penetrated  the  Arctic  regions  farther  than  any  previous  explorer. 

8  Sir  John  Franklin  (1786-1845),  English  Arctic  explorer. 


SELF-RELIANCE.  79 

of  science  and  art.  Galileo,  with  an  opera  glass,  discovered  a 
more  splendid  series  of  celestial  phenomena  than  any  one  since. 
Columbus1  found  the  New  World  in  an  undecked  boat.  It  is 
curious  to  see  the  periodical  disuse  and  perishing  of  means  and 
machinery,  which  were  introduced  with  loud  laudation  a  few 
years  or  centuries  before.  The  great  genius  returns  to  essential 
man.  We  reckoned  the  improvements  of  the  art  of  war  among 
the  triumphs  of  science,  and  yet  Napoleon2  conquered  Europe 
by  the  bivouac,3  which  consisted  of  falling  back  on  naked  valor, 
and  disencumbering  it  of  all  aids.  The  Emperor  held  it  impos- 
sible to  make  a  perfect  army,  says  Las  Casas,4  "  without  abolish- 
ing our  arms,  magazines,  commissaries,  and  carriages,  until,  in 
imitation  of  the  Roman  custom,  the  soldier  should  receive  his 

,  supply  of  corn,  grind  it  in  his  handmill,  and  bake  his  bread  him- 
self." 

^  Society  is  a  wave.  The  wave  moves  onward,  but  the  water 
of  which  it  is  composed  does  not.  The  same  particle  does  not 
rise  from  the  valley  to  the  ridge.  Its  unity  is  only  phenomenal. 
The  persons  who  make  up  a  nation  to-day,  next  year  die,  and 
their  experience  with  them. 

And  so  the  reliance  on  Property,  including  the  reliance  on 
governments  which  protect  it,  is  the  want  of  self-reliance.  Men 
have  looked  away  from  themselves  and  at  things  so  long,  that 
they  have  come  to  esteem  the  religious,  learned,  and  civil  institu- 
tions as  guards  of  property,  and  they  deprecate  assaults  on  these, 
because  they  feel  them  to  be  assaults  on  property.  They  meas- 
ure their  esteem  of  each  other  by  what  each  has,  and  not  by 

1  Christopher  Columbus  (about  1436-1506),  the  discoverer  of  America. 

2  See  note  2,  page  101. 

3  An  encampment  of  soldiers  in  the  open  air,  without  tents,  each  soldier 
remaining  dressed,  with  his  weapons  at  hand. 

4  Emmanuel   Augustin    Dieudonne",  Comte   de  las   Cases    (1766-1842); 
author  of  "Memorial  de  St.  He"lene,"  and  a  friend  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte's. 
Note  that  Emerson's  spelling  of  the  name  is  wrong.     He  confused  it  with 
that  of  the  great  Bartolome"  de  las  Casas,  the  Spanish  missionary. 


8o  EMERSON. 

what  each  is.  But  a  cultivated  man  becomes  ashamed  of  his 
property,  out  of  new  respect  for  his  nature.  Especially  he  hates 
what  he  has,  if  iie  see  that  it  is  accidental, —  came  to  him  by  in- 
heritance, or  gift,  or  crime ;  then  he  feels  that  it  is  not  having ; 
it  does  not  belong  to  him,  has  no  root  in  him,  and  merely  lies 
there,  because  no  revolution  or  no  robber  takes  it  away.  But 
that  which  a  man  js  does  always  by  necessity  acquire,1  and 
what  the  man  acquires  is  living  property,  which  does  not  wait 
the  beck  of  rulers,  or  mobs,  or  revolutions,  or  fire,  or  storm,  or 
bankruptcies,  but  perpetually  renews  itself  wherever  the  man 
breathes.  "  Thy  lot  or  portion  of  life,"  said  the  Caliph  Ali,2  "  is 
seeking  after  thee ;  therefore  be  at  rest  from  seeking  after  it." 
Our  dependence  on  these  foreign  goods  leads  us  to  our  slavish 
respect  for  numbers.  The  political  parties  meet  in  numerous 
conventions ;  the  greater  the  concourse,  and  with  each  new  up- 
roar of  announcement,  The  delegation  from  Essex!  The  Dem- 
ocrats from  New  Hampshire!  The  Whigs  of  Maine!  The 
young  patriot  feels  himself  stronger  than  before  by  a  new  thou- 
sand of  eyes  and  arms.  In  like  manner  the  reformers  summon 
conventions,  and  vote  and  resolve  in  multitude.  Not  so,  O 
friends!  will  the  God  deign  to  enter  and  inhabit  you,  but  by  a 
method  precisely  the  reverse.  It  is  only  as  a  man  puts  off  all 
foreign  support,  and  stands  alone,  that  I  see  him  to  be  strong  and 
to  prevail.  He  is  weaker  by  every  recruit  to  his  banner.  Is 
not  a  man  better  than  a  town?  Ask  nothing  of  men,  and  in 
the  endless  mutation,  thou  only  firm  column  must  presently  ap^ 
pear  the  upholder  of  all  that  surrounds  thee.  He  who  knows 
that  power  is  inborn,  that  he  is  weak  because  he  has  looked  for 
good  out  of  him  and  elsewhere,  and  so  perceiving,  throws  him- 
self unhesitatingly  on  his  thought,  instantly  rights  himself,  stands 
in  the  erect  position,  commands  his  limbs,  works  miracles ;  just 

1  Become  his  own. 

2  An  Arabian  caliph,  surnamed  the  "  Lion  of  God,"  a  cousin  and  follower 
of  Mohammed.     He  is   distinguished  as   an  author  of  many  maxims   and 
proverbs  which  have  been  handed  down  and  published. 


SELF-RE  LI  A  NCE.  8 1 

as  a  man  who  stands  on  his  feet  is  stronger  than  a  man  who 
stands  on  his  head. 

2>  So  use  all  that  is  called  Fortune.  Most  men  gamble  with  her, 
and  gain  all,  and  lose  all,  as  her  wheel  rolls.  But  do  thou  leave 
as  unlawful  these  winnings,  and  deal  with  Cause  and  Effect,  the 
chancellors  of  God.  In  the  Will  work  and  acquire,  and  thou 
hast  chained  the  wheel  of  Chance,1  and  shalt  sit  hereafter  out  of 
fear  from  her  rotations.  A  political  victory,  a  rise  of  rents,  the 
recovery  of  your  sick,  or  the  return  of  your  absent  friend,  or 
some  other  favorable  event,  raises  your  spirits,  and  you  think 
good  days  are  preparing  for  you.  Do  not  believe  it.  Nothing 
can  bring  you  peace  but  yourself.  Nothing  can  bring  you  peace 
but  the  triumph  of  principles. 

1  Fortuna,  the  goddess  of  fortune  or  chance  in  Roman  mythology,  was 
represented  with  her  eyes  bound,  standing  on  a  ball  or  wheel  to  indicate  that 
luck  rolls,  like  a  ball,  without  choice. 


COMPENSATION. 

THE  wings  of  Time  are  black  and  white, 
Pied  l  with  morning  and  with  night. 
Mountain  tall  and  ocean  deep 
Trembling  balance  duly  keep. 
In  changing  moon,  in  tidal  wave, 
Glows  the  feud  of  Want  and  Have. 
Gauge  of  more  and  less  through  space 
Electric  star  and  pencil  plays. 
The  lonely  Earth  amid  the  balls  2 
That  hurry  through  the  eternal  halls,3 
A  makeweight  4  flying  to  the  void, 
Supplemental  asteroid, 
Or  compensatory  spark, 
Shoots  across  the  neutral  Dark. 

1  Spotted.  2  Planets.  3  Space. 

4  Something  added  to  fill  a  deficiency. 


Man's  the  elm,  and  Wealth  the  vine, 
Stanch  and  strong  the  tendrils  twine : 
Though  the  frail  ringlets  thee  deceive, 
None  from  its  stock  that  vine  can  reave.1 
Fear  not,  then,  thou  child  infirm, 
There's  no  god  dare  wrong  a  worm. 
Laurel  crowns  2  cleave  to  deserts, 
And  power  to  him  who  power  exerts ; 
Hast  not  thy  share  ?     On  winged  feet, 
Lo  !  it  rushes  thee  to  meet ; 
And  all  that  Nature  made  thy  own, 
Floating  in  air  or  pent 3  in  stone, 
Will  rive 4  the  hills  and  swim  the  sea, 
And,  like  thy  shadow,  follow  thee. 

1  Take  away. 

2  Honors,  from  the  custom  of  the  ancient  Greeks  to  use  laurel  crowns 
mark  of  honor. 

3  Confined.  4  Rend  asunder. 


COMPENSATION. 

EVER  since  I  was  a  boy,  I  have  wished  to  write  a  discourse 
on  Compensation :  for  it  seemed  to  me  when  very  young, 
that  on  this  subject  life  was  ahead  of  theology,  and  the  people 
knew  more  than  the  preachers  taught.  The  documents,1  too, 
from  which  the  doctrine  is  to  be  drawn,  charmed  my  fancy  by 
their  endless  variety,  and  lay  always  before  me,  even  in  sleep ; 
for  they  are  the  tools  in  our  hands,  the  bread  in  our  basket,  the 
transactions  of  the  street,  the  farm,  and  the  dwelling  house, 
greetings,  relations,  debts  and  credits,  the  influence  of  character, 
the  nature  and  endowment  of  all  men.  It  seemed  to  me,  also, 
that  in  it  might  be  shown  men  a  ray  of  divinity,  the  present 
action  of  the  soul  of  this  world,  clean  from  all  vestige  of  tradi- 
tion, and  so  the  heart  of  man  might  be  bathed  by  an  inundation 
of  eternal  love,  conversing  with  that  which  he  knows  was  always 
and  always  must  be,  because  it  really  is  now.  It  appeared,  more- 
over, that  if  this  doctrine  could  be  stated  in  terms  with  any  resem- 
blance to  those  bright  intuitions  in  which  this  truth  is  sometimes 
revealed  to  us,  it  would  be  a  star2  in  many  dark  hours  and 
crooked  passages  in  our  journey  that  would  not  suffer  us  to  lose 
our  way. 

I  was  lately  confirmed  in  these  desires  by  hearing  a  sermon  at 
church.  The  preacher,  a  man  esteemed  for  his  orthodoxy,  un- 
folded in  the  ordinary  manner  the  doctrine  of  the  Last  Judg- 
ment. He  assumed,  that  judgment  is  not  executed  in  this  world  ; 
that  the  wicked  are  successful ;  that  the  good  are  miserable ;  and 
then  urged  from  reason  and  from  Scripture  a  compensation  to. 

1  Data.  A  guiding  star ;  hence,  guide. 

85 


86  EMERSON. 

be  made  to  both  parties  in  the  next  life.  No  offense  appeared 
to  be  taken  by  the  congregation  at  this  doctrine.  As  far  as  I 
could  observe,  when  the  meeting  broke  up,  they  separated  with- 
out remark  on  the  sermon. 

Yet  what  was  the  import1  of  this  teaching?  What  did  the 
preacher  mean  by  saying  that  the  good  are  miserable  in  the 
present  life?  Was  it  that  houses  and  lands,  offices,  wine,  horses, 
dress,  luxury,  are  had2  by  unprincipled  men,  whilst  the  saints  are 
poor  and  despised ;  and  that  a  compensation  is  to  be  made  to 
these  last  hereafter,  by  giving  them  the  like  gratifications  another 
day,  —  bank  stock  and  doubloons,3  venison  and  champagne? 
This  must  be  the  compensation  intended ;  for  what  else  ?  Is  it 
that  they  are  to  have  leave  to  pray  and  praise?  to  love  and  serve 
men?  Why,  that  they  can  do  now.  The  legitimate  inference 
the  disciple  would  draw  was,  — "  We  are  to  have  such  a  good 
time  as  the  sinners  have  now;"  —  or,  to  push  it  to  its  extreme 
import,  —  "  You  sin  now ;  we  shall  sin  by  and  by ;  we  would  sin 
now,  if  we  could ;  not  being  successful,  we  expect  our  revenge 
to-morrow." 

The  fallacy  lay  in  the  immense  concession,  that  the  bad  are 
successful ;  that  justice  is  not  done  now.  The  blindness  of  the 
preacher  consisted  in  deferring4  to  the  base  estimate  of  the 
market5  of  what  constitutes  a  manly  success,  instead  of  confront- 
ing and  convicting  the  world  from  the  truth ;  announcing  the 
presence  of  the  soul ;  the  omnipotence  of  the  will :  and  so 
establishing  the  standard  of  good  and  ill,  of  success  and  false- 
hood. 

I  find  a  similar  base  tone  in  the  popular  religious  works  of  the 
day,  and  the  same  doctrines  assumed  by  the  literary  men  when 
occasionally  they  treat  the  related  topics.  I  think  that  our  pop- 
ular theology  has  gained  in  decorum,  and  not  in  principle,  over 
the  superstitions  it  has  displaced.  But  men  are  better  than  this 

l  Meaning.  2  Possessed. 

3  Spanish  and  Portuguese  coins  worth  about  $15.60  each. 

*  Bowing  to ;  accepting.  5  Those  engaged  in  commercial  life. 


COMPENSATION.  §7 

theology.  Their  daily  life  gives  it  the  lie.1  Every  ingenuous 
and  aspiring  soul  leaves  the  doctrine  behind  him  in  his  own  ex- 
perience ;  and  all  men  feel  sometimes  the  falsehood  which  they 
cannot  demonstrate.  For  men  are  wiser  than  they  know.  That 
which  they  hear  in  schools  and  pulpits  without  afterthought,  if 
said  in  conversation,  would  probably  be  questioned  in  silence. 
If  a  man  dogmatize  in  a  mixed  company  on  Providence  and  the 
divine  laws,  he  is  answered  by  a  silence  which  conveys  well 
enough  to  an  observer  the  dissatisfaction  of  the  hearer,  but  his 
incapacity  to  make  his  own  statement. 

I  shall  attempt  to  record  some  facts  that  indicate  the  path  of 
the  law  of  Compensation ;  happy  beyond  my  expectation,  if  I 
shall  truly  draw  the  smallest  arc  of  this  circle. 

POLARITY,2  or  action  and  reaction,  we  meet  in  every  part  of 
nature;  in  darkness  and  light;  in  heat  and  cold;  in  the  ebb 
and  flow  of  waters  ;  in  male  and  female ;  in  the  inspiration  and 
expiration  of  plants  and  animals ;  in  the  equation  of  quantity 
and  quality  in  the  fluids  of  the  animal  body ;  in  the  systole3  and 
diastole4  of  the  heart ;  in  the  undulations  of  fluids,  and  of  sound ; 
in  the  centrifugal5  and  centripetal6  gravity;  in  electricity,  gal- 
vanism, and  chemical  affinity.  Superinduce7  magnetism  at  one 
end  of  a  needle  ;  the  opposite  magnetism  takes  place  at  the  other 
end.  If  the  south  attracts,  the  north  repels.  To  empty  here, 
you  must  condense  there.  An  inevitable  dualism  bisects  nature, 
so  that  each  thing  is  a  half,  and  suggests  another  thing  to  make 
it  wholet;  as,  spirit,  matter ;  man,  woman ;  odd,  even ;  subjec- 
tive, objective  ;  in,  out ;  upper,  under ;  motion,  rest ;  yea,  nay. 

Whilst  the  world  is  thus  dual,  so  is  every  one  of  its  parts.    The 

1  Proves  it  false.  2  See  Note  3,  p.  33. 

3  Contraction  of  the  heart  and  arteries. 

4  Dilatation  of  the  heart  and  arteries. 

5  Tending  to  recede  from  the  center. 

6  Tending  to  move  towards  the  center. 
1  Develop. 


88  EMERSON. 

entire  system  of  things  gets  represented  in  every  particle.  There 
is  somewhat  that  resembles  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  sea,  day  and 
night,  man  and  woman,  in  a  single  needle  of  the  pine,  in  a  kernel 
of  corn,  in  each  individual  of  every  animal  tribe.  The  reaction, 
so  grand  in  the  elements,  is  repeated  within  these  small  bounda- 
ries. For  example,  in  the  animal  kingdom  the  physiologist  has 
observed  that  no  creatures  are  favorites,  but  a  certain  compensa- 
tion balances  every  gift  and  every  defect.  A  surplusage1  given 
to  one  part  is  paid  out  of  a  reduction  from  another  part  of  the 
same  creature.  If  the  head  and  neck  are  enlarged,  the  trunk 
and  extremities  are  cut  short. 

The  theory  of  the  mechanic  forces  is  another  example.  What 
we  gain  in  power  is  lost  in  time ;  and  the  converse.  The  periodic 
or  compensating  errors  of  the  planets  is  another  instance.  The 
influences  of  climate  and  soil  in  political  history  is  another. 
The  cold  climate  invigorates.  The  barren  soil  does  not  breed 
fevers,  crocodiles,  tigers,  or  scorpions. 

The  same  dualism  underlies  the  nature  and  condition  of  man. 
Every  excess  causes  a  defect ;  every  defect  an  excess.  Every 
sweet  hath  its  sour ;  every  evil  its  good.  Every  faculty  which 
is  a  receiver  of  pleasure  has  an  equal  penalty  put  on  its  abuse. 
It  is  to  answer  for  its  moderation  with  its  life.  For  every  grain 
of  wit  there  is  a  grain  of  folly.  For  everything  you  have  missed, 
you  have  gained  something  else ;  and  for  everything  you  gain, 
you  lose  something.  If  riches  increase,  they  are  increased2  that 
use  them.  If  the  gatherer  gathers  too  much,  nature  takes  out 
of  the  man  what  she  puts  into  his  chest,  swells  the  estate,  but 
kills  the  owner.  Nature  hates  monopolies  and  exceptions.  The 
waves  of  the  sea  do  not  more  speedily  seek  a  level  from  their 
loftiest  tossing,  than  the  varieties  of  condition  tend  to  equalize 
themselves.  There  is  always  some  leveling  circumstance  that 
puts  down  the  overbearing,  the  strong,  the  rich,  the  fortunate, 
substantially  on  the  same  ground  with  all  others.  Is  a  man  too 

l  Excess.  2  That  is,  their  needs  or  wants  are  increased. 


COM  PEN  SA  T20N.  89 

strong  and  fierce  for  society,  and  by  temper  and  position  a  bad 
citizen,  —  a  morose  ruffian,  with  a  d^sh  of  the  pirate  in  him?  — 
nature  sends  him  a  troop  of  pretty  sons  and  daughters,  who  arc 
getting  along  in  the  dame's1  classes  at  the  village  school,  and 
love  and  fear  for  them  smooths  his  grim  scowl  to  courtesy.  Thus 
she  contrives  to  intenerate2  zlv.  granite  and  felspar,  takes  the 
boar  out  and  puts  the  lamb  in,  and  keeps  her  balance  true. 

The  farmer  imagines  power  and  place  are  fine  things.  But 
the  President  has  paid  dear  for  his  White  House.3  It  has  com- 
monly cost  him  all  his  peace,  and  the  best  of  his  manly  attri- 
butes. To  preserve  fcr  a  short  time  so  conspicuous  an  appear- 
ance before  the  world,  he  is  content  to  eat  dust4  before  the  real 
masters  who  stand  erect  behind  the  throne.  Or  do  men  desire 
the  more  substantial  and  permanent  grandeur  of  genius  ?  Neither 
has  this  an  immunity.  He  who  by  force  of  will  or  of  thought  is 
great,  and  overlooks5  thousands,  has  the  charges  of  that  emi- 
nence. With  every  influx  of  light  comes  new  danger.  Has  he 
light?  he  must  bear  witness  to  the  light,  and  always  outrun  that 
sympathy  which  gives  him  such  keen  satisfaction,  by  his  fidelity 
to  new  revelations  of  the  incessant  soul.  He  must  hate  father 
and  mother,  wife  and  child.  .  Has  he  all  that  the  world  loves  and 
admires  and  covets?  —  he  must  cast  behind  him  their  admiration, 
and  afflict  them  by  faithfulness  to  his  truth,  and  become  a  byword 
and  a  hissing. 

This  law  writes  the  laws  of  cities  and  nations.  It  is  in  vain 
to  build  or  plot  or  combine  against  it.  Things  refuse  to  be  mis- 
managed long.  Res  nolunt  diu  male  administrari?  Though  no 
checks  to  a  new  evil  appear,  the  checks  exist,  and  will  appear. 
If  the  government  is  cruel,  the  governor's  life  is  not  safe.  If 
you  tax  too  high,  the  revenue  will  yield  nothing.  If  you  make 
the  criminal  code  sanguinary,  juries  will  not  convict.  If  the  law 

1  Schoolmistress.  2  Soften. 

3  The  official  residence  of  the  President  in  Washington. 
*  "  Eat  dust,"  i.e.,  humble  himself.  5  Superintends. 

6  The  Latin  rendering  of  the.  sentence  preceding* 


90  EMERSON. 

is  too  mild,  private  vengeance  comes  in.  If  the  government  is 
a  terrific  democracy,  the  pressure  is  resisted  by  an  overcharge  of 
energy  in  the  citizen,  and  life  glows  with  a  fiercer  flame.  The 
true  life  and  satisfactions  of  man  seem  to  elude  the  utmost  rigors 
or  felicities  of  condition,  and  to  establish  themselves  with  great 
indifferency l  under  all  varieties  of  circumstances.  Under  all 
governments  the  influence  of  character  remains  the  same,  —  in 
Turkey  and  in  New  England  about  alike.  Under  the  primeval 
despots  of  Egypt,  history  honestly  confesses  that  man  must  have 
been  as  free  as  culture  could  make  him. 

These  appearances  indicate  the  fact  that  the  universe  is  repre- 
sented in  every  one  of  its  particles.  Everything  in  nature  con- 
tains all  the  powers  of  nature.  Everything  is  made  of  one 
hidden  stuff ;  as  the  naturalist  sees  one  type  under  every  meta- 
morphosis, and  regards  a  horse  as  a  running  man,  a  fish  as  a 
swimming  man,  a  bird  as  a  flying  man,  a  tree  as  a  rooted  man. 
Each  new  form  repeats  not  only  the  main  character  of  the  type, 
but  part  for  part  all  the  details,  all  the  aims,  furtherances,2  hin- 
drances, energies,  and  whole  system  of  every  other.  Every  oc- 
cupation, trade,  art,  transaction,  is  a  compend  of  the  world,  and 
a  correlative  of  every  other.  Each  one  is  an  entire  emblem  of 
human  life ;  of  its  good  and  ill,  its  trials,  its  enemies,  its  course 
and  its  end.  And  each  one  must  somehow  accommodate  the 
whole  man,  and  recite  all  his  destiny. 

The  world  globes  itself  in  a  drop  of  dew.3  The  microscope 
cannot  find  the  animalcule4  which  is  less  perfect  for  being  little. 
Eyes,  ears,  taste,  smell,  motion,  resistance,  appetite,  and  organs 
of  reproduction  that  take  hold  on  eternity,  —  all  find  room  to 
consist  in  the  small  creature.  So  do  we  put  our  life  into  every 
act.  The  true  doctrine  of  omnipresence  is,  that  God  reappears 
with  all  his  parts  in  every  moss  and  cobweb.  The  value  of  the 

1  Impartiality.  2  Things  which  help  its  progress. 

3  "The  world,"  etc.,  i.e.,  the  laws  which  make  the  world  a  globe  give 
the  same  shape  to  a  drop  of  dew. 

4  An  animal  so  small  as  to  be  nearly  or  quite  invisible  to  the  naked  eye. 


COMPENSATION.  91 

universe  contrives  to  throw  itself  into  every  point.  If  the  good 
is  there,  so  is  the  evil ;  if  the  affinity,  so  the  repulsion ;  if  the 
force,  so  the  limitation. 

Thus  is  the  universe  alive.  All  things  are  moral.  That  soul, 
which  within  us  is  a  sentiment,  outside  of  us  is  a  law.  We  feel 
its  inspiration ;  out  there  in  history  we  can  see  its  fatal  strength. 
"  It  is  in  the  world,  and  the  world  was  made  by  it."  Justice  is 
not  postponed.  A  perfect  equity  adjusts  its  balance  in  all  parts 
of  life.  Oi  Kv(3oi  Ato^  del  evniTTrovai,1 — The  dice  of  God  are 
always  loaded.2  The  world  looks  like  a  multiplication  table,  or 
a  mathematical  equation,  which,  turn  it  how  you  will,  balances 
itself.  Take  what  figure  you  will,  its  exact  value,  nor3  more  nor 
less,  still  returns  to  you.  Every  secret  is  told,  every  crime  is 
punished,  every  virtue  rewarded,  every  wrong  redressed,  in  silence 
and  certainty.  What  we  call  retribution  is  the  universal  neces- 
sity by  which  the  whole  appears  wherever  a  part  appears.  If 
you  see  smoke,  there  must  be  fire.  If  you  see  a  hand  or  a  limb, 
you  know  that  the  trunk  to  which  it  belongs  is  there  behind. 

Every  act  rewards  itself,  or,  in  other  words,  integrates  itself,  in 
a  twofold  manner ;  first,  in  the  thing,  or  in  real  nature ;  and  sec- 
ondly, in  the  circumstance,  or  in  apparent  nature.  Men  call  the 
circumstance  the  retribution.  The  causal  retribution  is  in  the 
thing,  and  is  seen  by  the  soul.  The  retribution  in  the  circum- 
stance is  seen  by  the  understanding ;  it  is  inseparable  from  the 
thing,  but  is  often  spread  over  a  long  time,  and  so  does  not  be- 
come distinct  until  after  many  years.  The  specific  stripes4  may 
follow  late  after  the  offense,  but  they  follow  because  they  accom- 
pany it.  Crime  and  punishment  grow  out  of  one  stem.  Punish- 
ment is  a  fruit  that  unsuspected  ripens  within  the  flower  of  the 
pleasure  which  concealed  it.  Cause  and  effect,  means  and  ends, 

1  Hoi  koo'boi  Deeos  at   upiptoosee  —  the   Greek   of   the  sentence   which 
follows. 

2  "  The  dice,"  etc.,  i.e.,  God  does  not  play  a  game  of  chance. 

3  Neither. 

4  Blows  made  with  a  lash ;  hence,  punishment. 


92  EMERSON. 

seed  and  fruit,  cannot  be  severed ;  for  the  effect  already  blooms 
in  the  cause,  the  end  preexists  in  the  means,  the  fruit  in  the 
seed. 

Whilst  thus  the  world  will  be  whole,  and  refuses  to  be  dis- 
parted,1 we  seek  to  act  partially,  to  sunder,  to  appropriate ;  for 
example,  —  to  gratify  the  senses,  we  sever  the  pleasure  of  the 
senses  from  the  needs  of  the  character.  The  ingenuity  of  man 
has  always  been  dedicated  to  the  solution  of  one  problem,— 
how  to  detach  the  sensual  sweet,  the  sensual  strong,  the  sensual 
bright,  etc.,  from  the  moral  sweet,  the  moral  deep,  the  moral 
fair ;  that  is,  again,  to  contrive  to  cut  clean  off  this  upper  surface 
so  thin  as  to  leave  it  bottomless ;  to  get  a  one  end,  without  an 
other  et{d.  The  soul  says,  Eat;  the  body  would  feast.  The 
soul  says,  The  man  and  woman  shall  be  one  flesh  and  one  soul ; 
the  body  would  join  the  flesh  only.  The  soul  says,  Have  do- 
minion over  all  things  to  the  ends  of  virtue  ;  the  body  would  have 
the  power  oyer  things  to  its  own  ends. 

The  soul  strives  amain2  to  live  and  work  through  all  things. 
It  would  be  the  only  fact.  All  things  shall  be  added  unto  it, — 
power,  pleasure,  knowledge,  beauty.  The  particular  man  aims 
to  be  somebody ;  to  set  up  for  himself ;  to  truck  and  higgle  for 
a  private  good ;  and,  in  particulars,  to  ride,  that  he  may  ride ;  to 
dress,  that  he  may  be  dressed ;  to  eat,  that  he  may  eat ;  and  to 
govern,  that  he  may  be  seen.  Men  seek  to  be  great ;  they  would 
have  offices,  wealth,  power,  and  fame.  They  think  that  to  be 
great  is  to  possess  one  side  of  nature,  —  the  sweet,  without  the 
other  side,  —  the  bitter. 

This  dividing  and  detaching  is  steadily  counteracted.  Up  to 
this  day,  it  must  be  owned,  no  projector  has  had  the  smallest  suc- 
cess. The  parted  water  reunites  behind  our  hand.  Pleasure  is 
taken  out  of  pleasant  things,  profit  out  of  profitable  things,  power 
out  of  strong  things,  as  .soon  as  we  seek  to  separate  them  from 
the  whole.  We  can  no  more  halve  things  and  get  the  sensual 

1  Divided.  2  Vigorously. 


COMPENSA  TION.  93 

good,  by  itself,  than  we  can  get  an  inside  that  shall  have  no  out- 
side, or  a  light  without  a  shadow.  "  Drive  out  nature  with  a 
fork,  she  comes  running  back."1 

Life  invests  itself  with  inevitable  conditions,  which  the  unwise 
seek  to  dodge,  which  one  and  another  brags  that  he  does  not 
know ;  that  they  do  not  touch  him ;  —  but  the  brag  is  on  his  lips, 
the  conditions  are  in  his  soul.  If  he  escapes  them  in  one  part, 
they  attack  him  in  another  more  vital  part.  If  he  has  escaped 
them  in  form,  and  in  the  appearance,  it  is  because  he  has  resisted 
his  life,  and  fled  from  himself,  and  the  retribution  is  so  much 
death.  So  signal  is  the  failure  of  all  attempts  to  make  this  sep- 
aration of  the  good  from  the  tax,  that  the  experiment  would  not 
be  tried,  —  since  to  try  it  is  to  be  mad,  —  but  for  the  circum- 
stance, that  when  the  disease  began  in  the  will,  of  rebellion  and 
separation,  the  intellect  is  at  once  infected,  so  that  the  man 
ceases  to  see  God  whole  in  each  object,  but  is  able  to  see  the 
sensual  allurement  of  an  object,  and  not  see  the  sensual  hurt ;  he 
sees  the  mermaid's2  head,  but  not  the  dragon's  tail;  and  thinks 
he  can  cut  off  that  which  he  would  have,  from  that  which  he 
would  not  have.  "How  secret  art  thou  who  dwellest  in  the 
highest  heavens  in  silence,  O  thou  only  great  God,  sprinkling 
with  an  unwearied  providence  certain  penal  blindnesses  upon 
such  as  have  unbridled  desires ! "  3 

The  human  soul  is  true  to  these  facts  in  the  painting  of  fable, 
of  history,  of  law,  of  proverbs,  of  conversation.  It  finds  a  tongue 
in  literature  unawares.  Thus  the  Greeks  called  Jupiter,4  Supreme 
'Mind;  but  having  traditionally  ascribed  to  him  many  base  ac- 
tions, they  involuntarily  made  amends  to  reason,  by  tying  up  the 
hands5  of  so  bad  a  god.  He  is  made  as  helpless  as  a  king  of 

1  A  proverb,  quoted  by  Horace,  the  origin  of  which  is  lost  in  antiquity. 

2  A  fabled  marine  being,  represented  as  having  the  upper  part  of  the  body 
like  a  woman  and  the  lower  part  like  a  fish,  serpent,  or  dragon. 

3  St.  Augustine,  Confessions,  Book  I. 

4  Jupiter,  Jove,  or  Zeus,  the  supreme  god  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans. 

5  Limiting  the  power. 


94  EMERSON. 

England.1  Prometheus2  knows  one  secret  which  Jove  must  bar- 
gain for ;  Minerva,3  another.  He  cannot  get  his  own  thunders ; 
Minerva  keeps  the  key  of  them. 

"  Of  all  the  gods,  I  only  know  the  keys 
That  ope  the  solid  doors  within  whose  vaults 
His  thunders  sleep." 

A  plain  confession  of  the  in-working  of  the  All,  and  of  its 
moral  aim.  The  Indian  mythology  ends  in  the  same  ethics ; 
and  it  would  seem  impossible  for  any  fable  to  be  invented  and 
get  any  currency  which  was  not  moral.  Aurora4  forgot  to  ask 
youth  for  her  lover,  and  though  Tithonus  is  immortal,  he  is  old. 
Achilles 5  is  not  quite  invulnerable ;  the  sacred  waters  did  not 
wash  the  heel  by  which  Thetis  held  him.  Siegfried,6  in  the 

1  Parliament  has  supreme  power  in  England. 

2  Prometheus,  in   Greek  mythology  the   regenerator  of  mankind,   used 
knowledge  as  a  weapon  to  defeat  evil.     He  stole  Jupiter's  fire  and  taught 
mortals  how  to  use  it.     Jupiter  punished  him  by  chaining  him  to  a  rock 
where  he  was  tortured  by  an  eagle.     There  was  a  prophecy  afloat  in  heaven 
portending  the  fall  of  Jupiter,  and  only  Prometheus  knew  the  secret  of  avert- 
ing it.     Jupiter  offered  him  his  freedom  if  he  would  reveal  it.     For  a  long 
time  he  steadfastly  refused,  and  endured  untold  tortures ;    but  at  length, 
according  to  some  traditions,  he  revealed  the  secret  that  if  Jupiter  became 
the  father  of  a  son  by  Thetis,  that  son  would  deprive  him  of  his  sovereignty. 
Prometheus  was  thereupon  set  free.     According  to  another  story  he  never 
divulged  the  secret,  but  was  at  length  released  by  Hercules,  who  killed  the 
eagle. 

3  Minerva,  Athena,  or  Pallas,  a  goddess  in  Greek  and  Roman  mythology,  • 
who  sprang  full-armed  from  the  head  of  her  father  Jupiter.    She  was  the  god- 
dess of  wisdom  and  of  war,  and  sometimes  wielded  Jupiter's  thunderbolts. 

4  Aurora,    Roman  goddess  of  the  dawn,  became  enamored  of  Tithonus, 
son  of  Laomedon,  King  of  Troy.     She  stole  him  away  and  persuaded  Jupiter 
to  grant  him  immortality,  but  she  forgot  to  have  youth  added  to  the  gift,  and 
soon  began  to  discern  that  he  was  growing  old.     She  grew  angry  at  this  and 
finally  turned  him  into  a  grasshopper. 

5  Achilles   is   the  hero  of  the  Iliad,  Homer's  great  epic.     His  mother, 
Thetis,  dipped  him  in  the  river  Styx  to  render  him  immortal. 

6  The  Nibelungenlied  is  the  great  epic  poem  of  the  old  Germans,  as  the 


COMPENSA  TION.  95 

Nibelungen,  is  not  quite  immortal,  for  a  leaf  fell  on  his  back 
whilst  he  was  bathing  in  the  dragon's  blood,  and  that  spot  which 
it  covered  is  mortal.  And  so  it  must  be.  There  is  a  crack  in 
everything  God  has  made.  It  would  seem,  there  is  always  this 
vindictive  circumstance  stealing  in  at  unawares,  even  into  the 
wild  poesy  in  which  the  human  fancy  attempted  to  make  bold 
holiday,  and  to  shake  itself  free  of  the  old  laws,  —  this  back- 
stroke, this  kick  of  the  gun,  certifying  that  the  law  is  fatal ;  that 
in  nature  nothing  can  be  given,  all  things  are  sold. 

This  is  that  ancient  doctrine  of  Nemesis,1  who  keeps  watch  in 
the  universe,  and  lets  no  offense  go  unchastised.  The  Furies,2 
they  said,  are  attendants  on  justice,  and  if  the  sun  in  heaven 
should  transgress  his  path,  they  would  punish  him.  The  poets 
related  that  stone  walls,  and  iron  swords,  and  leathern  thongs  had 
an  occult  sympathy  with  the  wrongs  of  their  owners ;  that  the 
belt  which  Ajax  gave  Hector  dragged  the  Trojan  hero  over  the 
field  at  the  wheels  of  the  car  of  Achilles,  and  the  sword  which 
Hector  gave  Ajax  was  that  on  whose  point  Ajax3  fell.  They 
recorded,  that  when  the  Thasians  erected  a  statue  to  Theagenes,4 
a  victor  in  the  games,  one  of  his  rivals  went  to  it  by  night,  and  en- 
deavored to  throw  it  down  by  repeated  blows,  until  at  last  he  moved 
it  from  its  pedestal,  and  was  crushed  to  death  beneath  its  fall. 

Iliad  is  of  the  ancient  Greeks.  Siegfried  is  the  mythical  hero  of  the  former 
as  Achilles  is  of  the  latter  story. 

1  In  Greek  mythology,  a  goddess  personifying  moral  reverence  for  law. 
She  visited  the  righteous  anger  of  the  gods  upon  the  proud  and  insolent. 

2  The  Furies  were  three  mythological  deities,   Alecto,   Tisiphone,    and 
Megsera,  who  punished  crimes  by  their  secret  stings. 

3  Ajax  and  Hector  are  mythological  heroes  in  the  Trojan  War  as  related 
in  the  Iliad,  the  former  a  Greek  and  the  latter  a  Trojan.     After  a  personal 
combat,  they  exchanged  arms,  and  when  subsequently  Ajax  committed  sui- 
cide, he  used  the  sword  which  had  been  Hector's,  and  when  Achilles  killed 
Hector,  he  used  the  belt  which  had  belonged  to  Ajax  to  fasten  the  corpse  to 
his  chariot  or  car. 

4  See  Pausanias's  Description  of  Greece,  Book  VI.,  line  n.     Theagenes, 
an  inhabitant  of  Thasos,  an  island  in  the  ./Egean  Sea,  was  renowned  for  his 
strength  and  swiftness  and  his  numerous  victories  in  athletic  contests. 


96  EMERSON. 

This  voice  of  fable  has  in  it  somewhat  divine.  It  came  from 
thought  above  the  will  of  the  writer.  That  is  the  best  part  of 
each  writer,  which  has  nothing  private  in  it ;  that  which  he  does 
not  know,  that  which  flowed  out  of  his  constitution,  and  not 
from  his  too  active  invention ;  that  which  in  the  study  of  a  single 
artist  you  might  not  easily  find,  but  in  the  study  of  many,  you 
would  abstract  as  the  spirit  of  them  all.  Phidias1  it  is  not,  but 
the  work  of  man  in  that  early  Hellenic2  world,  that  I  would 
know.  The  name  and  circumstance  of  Phidias,  however  con- 
venient for  history,  embarrass  when  we  come  to  the  highest  crit- 
icism. We  are  to  see  that  which  man  was  tending  to  do  in  a 
given  period,  and  was  hindered,  or,  if  you  will,  modified  in  doing, 
by  the. interfering  volitions  of  Phidias,  of  Dante,3  of  Shakespeare,4 
the  organ  whereby  man  at  the  moment  wrought. 

Still  more  striking  is  the  expression  of  this  fact  in  the  proverbs 
of  all  nations,  which  are  always  the  literature  of  reason,  or  the 
statements  of  an  absolute  truth,  without  qualification.  Proverbs, 
like  the  sacred  books  of  each  nation,  are  the  sanctuary  of  the  in- 
tuitions. That  which  the  droning  world,  chained  to  appearances, 
will  not  allow  the  realist  to  say  in  his  own  words,  it  will  suffer 
him  to  say  in  proverbs  without  contradiction.  And  this  law  of 
laws  which  the  pulpit,  the  senate,  and  the  college  deny,  is  hourly 
preached  in  all  markets  and  workshops  by  flights  of  proverbs, 
whose  teaching  is  as  true  and  as  omnipresent  as  that  of  birds 
and  flies. 

All  things  are  double,  one  against  another.  —  Tit  for  tat ;  an 
eye  for  an  eye ;  a  tooth  for  a  tooth ;  blood  for  blood  ;  measure 
for  measure ;  love  for  love.  —  Give  and  it  shall  be  given  you.  — 
He  that  watereth  shall  be  watered  himself.  —  What  will  you  have? 
quoth  God  ;  pay  for  it  and  take  it.  —  Nothing  venture,  nothing 
have.  —  Thou  shalt  be  paid  exactly  for  what  thou  hast  done,  no 
more,  no  less.  —  Who  doth  not  work  shall  not  eat. —  Harm 
watch,  harm  catch.  —  Curses  always  recoil  on  the  head  of  him 

l  See  Note  4,  p.  76.  2  Greek.  3  See  Note  6,  p.  76. 

4  See  Note  3,  p.  29. 


COMPENSA  TION.  97 

who  imprecates  them. —  If  you  put  a  chain  around  the  neck  of 
a  slave,  the  other  end  fastens  itself  around  your  own.  —  Bad 
counsel  confounds  the  adviser.  —  The  Devil  is  an  ass. 

It  is  thus  written,  because  it  is  thus  in  life.  Our  action  is 
overmastered  and  characterized  above  our  will  by  the  law  of 
nature.  We  aim  at  a  petty  end  quite  aside  from  the  public  good, 
but  our  act  arranges  itself  by  irresistible  magnetism  in  a  line  with 
the  poles  of  the  world. 

A  man  cannot  speak,  but  he  judges  himself.  With  hia  will,  or 
against  his  will,  he  draws  his  portrait  to  the  eye  of  his  compan- 
ions by  every  word.  Every  opinion  reacts  on  him  who  utters  it. 
It  is  a  thread-ball1  thrown  at  a  mark,  but  the  other  end  remains 
in  the  thrower's  bag.  Or,  rather,  it  is  a  harpoon  hurled  at  the 
whale,  unwinding,  as  it  flies,  a  coil  of  cord  in  the  boat,  and  if 
the  harpoon  is  not  good,  or  not  well  thrown,  it  will  go  nigh  to 
cut  the  steersman  in  twain,  or  to  sink  the  boat. 

You  cannot  do  wrong  without  suffering  wrong.  "  No  man 
had  ever  a  point  of  pride  that  was  not  injurious  to  him,"  said 
Burke.2  The  exclusive  in  fashionable  life  does  not  see  that  he 
excludes  himself  from  enjoyment,  in  the  attempt  to  appropriate 
it.  The  exclusionist  in  religion  does  not  see  that  he  shuts  the 
door  of  heaven  on  himself,  in  striving  to  shut  out  others.  Treat 
men  as  pawns3  and  ninepins,  and  you  shall  suffer  as  well  as  they. 
If  you  leave  out  their  heart,  you  shall  lose  your  own.  The  senses 
would  make  things  of  all  persons ;  of  women,  of  children,  of 
the  poor.  The  vulgar  proverb,  "I  will  get  it  from  his  purse  or 
get  it  from  his  skin,"  is  sound  philosophy. 

All  infractions  of  love  and  equity  in  our  social  relations  are 
speedily  punished.  They  are  punished  by  fear.  Whilst  I  stand 

1  A  ball  of  thread. 

2  Edmund  Burke  (1729-97),  Irish  statesman,  orator,  and  political  writer. 
His  best  known  works  are  his  Speech  on  American  Conciliation  and  Reflec- 
tions on  the  French  Revolution. 

3  A  piece  of  lowest  rank  in  the  game  of  chess ;  hence,  a  mere  figure  to  be 
moved  about  at  the  will  of  another. 


9  8  EMERSON. 

in  simple  relations  to  my  fellow-man,  I  have  no  displeasure  in 
meeting  him.  We  meet  as  water  meets  water,  or  as  two  currents 
of  air  mix,  with  perfect  diffusion  and  interpenetration l  of  nature. 
But  as  soon  as  there  is  any  departure  from  simplicity,  and  attempt 
at  halfness,  or  good  for  me  that  is  not  good  for  him,  my  neighbor 
feels  the  wrong ;  he  shrinks  from  me  as  far  as  I  have  shrunk 
from  him ;  his  eyes  no  longer  seek  mine ;  there  is  war  between 
us ;  there  is  hate  in  him  and  fear  in  me. 

All  the  old  abuses  in  society,  universal  and  particular,  all  un- 
just accumulations  of  property  and  power,  are  avenged  in  the 
same  manner.  Fear  is  an  instructor  of  great  sagacity,  and  the 
herald  of  all  revolutions.  One  thing  he  teaches,  that  there  is 
rottenness  where  he  appears.  He  is  a  carrion  crow,  and  though 
you  see  not  well  what  he  hovers  for,  there  is  death  somewhere. 
Our  property  is  timid,  our  laws  are  timid,  our  cultivated  classes 
are  timid.  Fear  for  ages  has  boded  and  mowed  and  gibbered2 
over  government  and  property.  That  obscene3  bird  is  not 
there  for  nothing.  He  indicates  great  wrongs  which  must  be 
revised. 

Of  the  like  nature  is  that  expectation  of  change  which  instantly 
follows  the  suspension  of  our  voluntary  activity.  The  terror  of 
cloudless  noon,  the  emerald  of  Polycrates,4  the  awe  of  prosper- 
ity, the  instinct  which  leads  every  generous  soul  to  impose  on 
itself  tasks  of  a  noble  asceticism  and  vicarious  virtue,  are  the 
tremblings  of  the  balance  of  justice  through  the  heart  and  mind 
of  man. 

1  A  penetrating  between  other  substances. 

2  "  Fear,"  etc.,  i.e.,  fear  has  presaged  evil,  made  faces,  and  spoken  inco. 
herently.  3  Ill-omened. 

4  Polycrates,  a  celebrated  Greek  tyrant  of  Samos,  had  such  unvarying 
good  fortune  that  he  was  counseled  to  cast  from  him  that  which  he  valued 
most  in  order  to  allay  the  jealousy  of  the  gods.  Accordingly  he  threw  into 
the  sea  an  emerald  ring  of  extraordinary  beauty ;  but  in  a  few  days  he 
regained  it  from  inside  a  fish  presented  to  him  by  a  fisherman.  Soon  after 
this  Polycrates'  prosperity  deserted  him  and  he  suffered  an  ignominious  death 
on  the  cross. 


COM  PEN  SA  T10N.  99 

Experienced  men  of  the  world  know  very  well  that  it  is  best 
to  pay  scot  and  lot l  as  they  go  along,  and  that  a  man  often  pays 
dear  for  a  small  frugality.  The  borrower  runs  in  his  own  debt. 
Has  a  man  gained  anything  who  has  received  a  hundred  favors 
and  rendered  none  ?  Has  he  gained  by  borrowing,  through  in- 
dolence or  cunning,  his  neighbor's  wares,  or  horses,  or  money? 
There  arises  on  the  deed  the  instant  acknowledgment  of  benefit 
on  the  one  part,  and  of  debt  on  the  other ;  that  is,  of  superiority 
and  inferiority.  The  transaction  remains  in  the  memory  of  him- 
self and  his  neighbor ;  and  every  new  transaction  alters,  accord- 
ing to  its  nature,  their  relation  to  each  other.  He  may  soon 
come  to  see  that  he  had  better  have  broken  his  own  bones  than 
to  have  ridden  in  his  neighbor's  coach,  and  that  "  the  highest 
price  he  can  pay  for  a  thing  is  to  ask  for  it." 

A  wise  man  will  extend  this  lesson  -to  all  parts  of  life,  and 
know  that  it  is  the  part  of  prudence  to  face  every  claimant,  and 
pay  every  just  demand  on  your  time,  your  talents,  or  your  heart. 
Always  pay  ;  for,  first  or  last,  you  must  pay  your  entire  debt.  Per- 
sons and  events  may  stand  for  a  time  between  you  and  justice, 
but  it  is  only  a  postponement.  You  must  pay  at  last  your  own 
debt.  If  you  are  wise,  you  will  dread  a  prosperity  which  only 
loads  you  with  more.  Benefit  is  the  end  of  nature.  But  for 
every  benefit  which  you  receive,  a  tax  is  levied.  He  is  great 
who  confers  the  most  benefits.  He  is  base  —  and  that  is  the 
one  base  thing  in  the  universe  —  to  receive  favors  and  render 
none.  In  the  order  of  nature  we  cannot  render  benefits  to  those 
from  whom  we  receive  them,  or  only  seldom.  But  the  benefit 
we  receive  must  be  rendered  again,  line  for  line,  deed  for  deed, 
cent  for  cent,  to  somebody.  Beware  of  too  much  good  staying 
in  your  hand.  It  will  fast  corrupt  and  worm2  worms.  Pay  it 
away  quickly  in  some  sort.  3 

Labor  is  watched  over  by  the  same  pitiless  laws.     Cheapest, 

1  Scot  and  lot,  formerly  a  parish  assessment  laid  on  subjects  according  to 
their  ability. 

2  Beget,  3  Manner. 


ioo  EMERSON. 

say  the  prudent,  is  the  dearest  labor.  What  we  buy  in  a  broom, 
a  mat,  a  wagon,  a  knife,  is  some  application  of  good  sense  to  a 
common  want.  It  is  best  to  pay  in  your  land  a  skillful  gardener, 
or  to  buy  good  sense  applied  to  gardening ;  in  your  sailor,  good 
sense  applied  to  navigation ;  in  the  house,  good  sense  applied 
to  cooking,  sewing,  serving ;  in  your  agent,  good  sense  applied 
to  accounts  and  affairs.  So  do  you  multiply  your  presence,  or 
spread  yourself  throughout  your  estate.  But  because  of  the  dual 
constitution  of  things,  in  labor  as  in  life  there  can  be  no  cheat- 
ing. The  thief  steals  from  himself.  The  swindler  swindles  him- 
self. For  the  real  price  of  labor  is  knowledge  and  virtue,  whereof 
wealth  and  credit  are  signs.  These  signs,  like  paper  money,  may 
be  counterfeited  or  stolen,  but  that  which  they  represent,  namely, 
knowledge  and  virtue,  cannot  be  counterfeited  or  stolen.  These 
ends  of  labor  cannot  be  answered  but  by  real  exertions  of  the 
mind,  and  in  obedience  to  pure  motives.  The  cheat,  the  de- 
faulter, the  gambler,  cannot  extort  the  knowledge  of  material  and 
moral  nature  which  his  honest  care  and  pains  yield  to  the  opera- 
tive. The  law  of  nature  is,  Do  the  thing,  and  you  shall  have  the 
power :  but  they  who  do  not  the  thing  have  not  the  power. 

Human  labor,  through  all  its  forms,  from  the  sharpening  of  a 
stake  to  the  construction  of  a  city  or  an  epic,  is  one  immense 
illustration  of  the  perfect  compensation  of  the  universe.  The 
absolute  balance  of  Give  and  Take,  the  doctrine  that  everything 
has  its  price,  —  and  if  that  price  is  not  paid,  not  that  thing  but 
something  else  is  obtained,  and  that  it  is  impossible  to  get  any- 
thing without  its  price,  —  is  not  less  sublime  in  the  columns  of  a 
leger  than  in  the  budgets  of  states,  in  the  laws  of  light  and  dark- 
ness, in  all  the  action  and  reaction  of  nature.  I  cannot  doubt 
that  the  high  laws  which  each  man  sees  implicated  in  those  pro- 
cesses with  which  he  is  conversant,  the  stern  ethics  which  sparkle 
on  his  chisel  edge,  which  are  measured  out  by  his  plumb  and 
foot  rule,  which  stand  as  manifest  in  the  footing  of  the  shop  bill 
as  in  the  history  of  a  state,  —  do  recommend  to  him  his  trade, 
and  though  seldom  named,  exalt  his  business  to  his  imagination. 


COM  PENS  A  TION.  I  o  I 

The  league  between  virtue  and  nature  engages  all  things  to 
assume  a  hostile  front  to  vice.  The  beautiful  laws  and  sub- 
stances of  the  world  persecute  and  whip  the  traitor.  He  finds 
that  things  are  arranged  for  truth  and  benefit,  but  there  is  no  den 
in  the  wide  world  to  hide  a  rogue.  Commit  a  crime,  and  the 
earth  is  made  of  glass.1  Commit  a  crime,  and  it  seems  as  if  a 
coat  of  snow  fell  on  the  ground,  such  as  reveals  in  the  woods 
the  track  of  every  partridge  and  fox  and  squirre1  and  mole.  You 
cannot  recall  the  spoken  word,  you  cannot  Wipe  cut  the  foot- 
track,  you  cannot  draw  up  the  ladder;  so  as  to  leave  r,tf 'inlet*  Or 
clew.  Some  damning  circumstance  al  ways  "transpires*-'  The  la'wS 
and  substances  of  nature  —  water,  snow,  wind,  gravitation  — 
become  penalties  to  the  thief. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  law  holds  with  equal  sureness  for  all 
right  action.  Love,  and  you  shall  be  loved.  All  love  is  mathe- 
matically just,  as  much  as  the  two  sides  of  an  algebraic  equation. 
The  good  man  has  absolute  good,  which  like  fire  turns  every- 
thing to  its  own  nature,  so  that  you  cannot  do  him  any  harm ; 
but  as  the  royal  armies  sent  against  Napoleon,2  when  he  ap- 
proached, cast  down  their  colors  and  from  enemies  became 
friends,  so  disasters  of  all  kinds,  as  sickness,  offense,  poverty, 
prove  benefactors :  — 

"Winds  blow  and  waters  roll 
Strength  to  the  brave,  and  power  and  deity, 
Yet  in  themselves  are  nothing." 

The  good  are  befriended  even  by  weakness  and  defect.  As 
no  man  had  ever  a  point  of  pride  that  was  not  injurious  to  him, 
so  no  man  had  ever  a  defect  that  was  not  somewhere  made  useful 

1  There  is  no  place  where  you  can  hide ;  every  spot  will  be  transparent. 

2  Napoleon    Bonaparte   (1769-1821),    Emperor  of  France.      For   many 
years  he  was  one  of  the  most  successful  generals  the  world  has  ever  seen, 
and  he  seemed  destined  to  conquer  the  whole  of  Europe,  but  was  finally 
defeated  at  Waterloo  by  the  English  and  Prussians,  and  exiled  to  St.  Helena, 
where  he  died. 


102  EMERSON. 

to  him.  The  stag  in  the  fable1  admired  his  horns  and  blamed 
his  feet,  but  when  the  hunter  came,  his  feet  saved  him,  and  after- 
wards, caught  in  the  thicket,  his  horns  destroyed  him.  Every 
man  in  his  lifetime  needs  to  thank  his  faults.  As  no  man  thor- 
oughly understands  a  truth  until  he  has  contended  against  it,  so 
no  man  has  a  thorough  acquaintance  with  the  hindrances  or 
talents  of  men,  until  he  has  suffered  from  the  one,  and  seen  the 
tiianvph  of 'the  other,  o/er  his  own  want  of  the  same.  Has  he  a 
defect  of  temper; that  unfits  him  to  live  in  society  ?  Thereby  he 
is  -driven:  to  ;fcr.tertaia  himself  alone,  and  acquire  habits  of  self- 
help  ;  and  thus,  like  the  wounded  oyster,  he  mends  his  shell  with 
pearl. 

Our  strength  grows  out  of  our  weakness.  The  indignation 
which  arms  itself  with  secret  forces  does  not  awaken  until  we 
are  pricked  and  stung  and  sorely  assailed.  A  great  man  is 
always  willing  to  be  little.  Whilst  he  sits  on  the  cushion  of 
advantages,  he1  goes  to  sleep.  When  he  is  pushed,  tormented, 
defeated,  he  has  a  chance  to  learn  something ;  he  has  been  put 
on  his  wits,  on  his  manhood ;  he  has  gained  facts ;  learns  his 
ignorance  ;  is  cured  of  the  insanity  of  conceit ;  has  got  modera- 
tion and  real  skill.  The  wise  man  throws  himself  on  the  side  of 
his  assailants.  It  is  more  his  interest  than  it  is  theirs  to  find  his 
weak  point.  The  wound  cicatrizes2  and  falls  off  from  him  like 
a  dead  skin,  and  when  they  would  triumph,  lo!  he  has  passed 
on  invulnerable.  Blame  is  safer  than  praise.  I  hate  to  be  de- 
fended in  a  newspaper.  As  long  as  all  that  is  said  is  said  against 
me,  I  feel  a  certain  assurance  of  success.  But  as  soon  as 
honeyed  words  of  praise  are  spoken  for  me,  I  feel  as  one  that 
lies  unprotected  before  his  enemies.  In  general,  every  evil  to 
which  we  do  not  succumb  is  a  benefactor.  As  the  Sandwich 
Islander  believes  that  the  strength  and  valor  of  the  enemy  he 
kills  passes  into  himself,  so  we  gain  the  strength  of  the  tempta- 
tion we  resist. 

1  One  of  ^sop's  fables. 

2  Heals  by  forming  a  skin  over  dead  flesh. 


COMPENSATION.  103 

The  same  guards  which  protect  us  from  disaster,  defect,  and 
enmity,  defend  us,  if  we  will,  from  selfishness  and  fraud.  Bolts 
and  bars  are  not  the  best  of  our  institutions,  nor  is  shrewdness 
in  trade  a  mark  of  wisdom.  Men  suffer  all  their  life  long,  under 
the  foolish  superstition  that  they  can  be  cheated.  But  it  is  as 
impossible  for  a  man  to  be  cheated  by  any  one  but  himself,  as 
for  a  thing  to  be  and  not  to  be  at  the  same  time.  There  is  a 
third  silent  party  to  all  our  bargains.  The  nature  and  soul  of 
things  takes  on  itself  the  guaranty  of  the  fulfillment  of  every  con- 
tract, so  that  honest  service  cannot  come  to  loss.  If  you  serve 
an  ungrateful  master,  serve  him  the  more.  Put  God  in  your 
debt.  Every  stroke  shall  be  repaid.  The  longer  the  payment 
is  withholden,1  the  better  for  you;  for  compound  interest  on 
compound  interest  is  the  rate  and  usage  of  this  exchequer.2 

The  history  of  persecution  is  a  history  of  endeavors  to  cheat 
nature,  to  make  water  run  up  hill,  to  twist  a  rope  of  sand.  It 
makes  no  difference  whether  the  actors  be  many  or  one,  a  tyrant 
or  a  mob.  A  mob  is  a  society  of  bodies  voluntarily  bereaving 
themselves  of  reason,  and  traversing  its  work.  The  mob  is  man 
voluntarily  descending  to  the  nature  of  the  beast.  Its  fit  hour 
of  activity  is  night.  Its  actions  are  insane  like  its  whole  consti- 
tution. It  persecutes  a  principle ;  it  would  whip  a  right ;  it 
would  tar  and  feather  justice,  by  inflicting  .fire  and  outrage 
upon  the  houses  and  persons  of  those  who  have  these.  It  re- 
sembles the  prank  of  boys,  who  run  with  fire  engines  to  put 
out  the  ruddy  aurora  streaming  to  the  stars.  The  inviolate 
spirit  turns  their  spite  against  the  wrongdoers.  The  martyr 
cannot  be  dishonored.  Every  lash  inflicted  is  a  tongue  of 
fame ;  every  prison,  a  more  illustrious  abode ;  every  burned 
book  or  house  enlightens  the  world;  every  suppressed  or  ex- 
punged word  reverberates  through  the  earth  from  side  to  side. 
Hours  of  sanity  and  consideration  are  always  arriving  to  com- 
munities, as  to  individuals,  when  the  truth  is  seen,  and  the  mar- 
tyrs are  justified. 

i  Old  form  of  "  withheld."  2  Treasury. 


104  EMERSON. 

Thus  do  all  things  preach  the  indifferency  of  circumstances. 
The  man  is  all.  Everything  has  two  sides,  a  good  and  an  evil. 
Every  advantage  has  its  tax.  I  learn  to  be  content.  But  the 
doctrine  of  compensation  is  not  the  doctrine  of  indifferency.  The 
thoughtless  say,  on  hearing  these  representations, — What  boots1 
it  to  do  well?  there  is  one  event  to  good  and  evil ;  if  I  gain  any 
good,  I  must  pay  for  it;  if  I  lose  any  good,  I  gain  some  other; 
all  actions  are  indifferent. 

There  is  a  deeper  fact  in  the  soul  than  compensation,  to  wit, 
its  own  nature.  The  soul  is  not  a  compensation,  but  a  life. 
The  soul  is.  Under  all  this  running  sea  of  circumstance,  whose 
waters  ebb  and  flow  with  perfect  balance,  lies  the  aboriginal2 
abyss  of  real  Being.  Essence,  or  God,  is  not  a  relation,  or  a 
part,  but  the  whole.  Being  is  the  vast  affirmative,  excluding 
negation,  self-balanced,  and  swallowing  up  all  relations,  parts, 
and  times  within  itself.  Nature,  truth,  virtue,  are  the  influx  from 
thence.  Vice  is  the  absence  or  departure  of  the  same.  Nothing, 
Falsehood,  may  indeed  stand  as  the  great  Night  or  shade,  on 
which,  as  a  background,  the  living  universe  paints  itself  forth,  but 
no  fact  is  begotten  by  it ;  it  cannot  work  ;  for  it  is  not.  It  can- 
not work  any  good ;  it  cannot  work  any  harm.  It  is  harm  inas- 
much as  it  is  worse  not  to  be  than  to  be. 

We  feel  defrauded  of  the  retribution  due  to  evil  acts,  because 
the  criminal  adheres  to  his  vice  and  contumacy,  and  does  not 
come  to  a  crisis  or  judgment  anywhere  in  visible  nature.  There 
is  no  stunning  confutation  of  his  nonsense  before  men  and  angels. 
Has  he  therefore  outwitted  the  law?  Inasmuch  as  he  carries 
the  malignity  and  the  lie  with  him,  he  so  far  deceases  from 
nature.  In  some  manner  there  will  be  a  demonstration  of  the 
wrong  to  the  understanding  also ;  but  should  we  not  see  it,  this 
deadly  deduction  makes  square  the  eternal  account. 

Neither  can  it  be  said,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  gain  of 
rectitude  must  be  bought  by  any  loss.  There  is  no  penalty  to 
virtue ;  no  penalty  to  wisdom ;  they  are  proper  additions  of 
i  Profits.  2  See  Note  2,  p.  63. 


COM  PENS  A  TION.  I  o  5 

being.  In  a  virtuo  js  action,  I  properly  am;  in  a  virtuous  act,  I  add 
to  the  world;  I  plant  into  deserts  conquered  from  Chaos  and 
Nothing,  and  see  the  darkness  receding  on  the  limits  of  the  hori- 
zon. There  can  be  no  excess  to  love ;  none  to  knowledge ;  none 
to  beauty,  when  these  attributes  are  considered  in  the  purest 
sense.  The  soul  refuses  limits,  and  always  affirms  an  Optimism,1 
never  a  Pessimism. 

His  life  is  a  progress,  and  not  a  station.  His  instinct  is  trust. 
Our  instinct  uses  "  more  "  and  "  less  "  in  application  to  man,  of 
the  presence  of  the  soul,  and  not  of  its  absence ;  the  brave  man 
is  greater  than  the  coward ;  the  true,  the  benevolent,  the  wise,  is 
more  a  man,  and  not  less,  than  the  fool  and  knave.  There  is  no 
tax  on  the  good  of  virtue ;  for  that  is  the  incoming  of  God  him- 
self, or  absolute  existence  without  any  comparative.  Material 
good  has  its  tax,  and  if  it  came  without  desert  or  sweat,  has  no 
root  in  me,  and  the  next  wind  will  blow  it  away.  But  all  the 
good  of  nature  is  the  soul's,  and  may  be  had,  if  paid  for  in  nature's 
lawful  coin,  that  is,  by  labor  which  the  heart  and  the  head  allow. 
I  no  longer  wish  to  meet2  a  good  I  do  not  earn,  for  example,  to 
find  a  pot  of  buried  gold,  knowing  that  it  brings  with  it  new 
burdens.  I  do  not  wish  more  external  goods,  —  neither  posses- 
sions, nor  honors,  nor  powers,  nor  persons.  The  gain  is  appar- 
ent ;  the  tax  is  certain.  But  there  is  no  tax  on  the  knowledge 
that  the  compensation  exists,  and  that  it  is  not  desirable  to  dig 
up  treasure.  Herein  I  rejoice  with  a  serene  eternal  peace.  I 
contract  the  boundaries  of  possible  mischief.  I  learn  the  wisdom 
of  St.  Bernard,3 — "  Nothing  can  work  me  damage  except  my- 
self ;  the  harm  that  I  sustain  I  carry  about  with  me,  and  never 
am  a  real  sufferer  but  by  my  own  fault." 

In  the  nature  of  the  soul  is  the  compensation  for  the  inequali- 

1  The  doctrine  that  everything  in  nature  is  ordered  for  the  best.     Pessi- 
mism is  the  reverse. 

2  To  receive,  or  have  bestowed  on  me. 

3  St.  Bernard  of  Clairvaux,  France  (1091-1153),  one  of  the  most  influen- 
tial theologians  of  the  middle  ages. 


io6  EMERSON. 

ties  of  condition.  The  radical  tragedy  of  nature  seems  to  be  the 
distinction  of  More  and  Less.  How  can  Less  not  feel  the  pain ; 
how  not  feel  indignation  or  malevolence  towards  More?  Look 
at  those  who  have  less  faculty,  and  one  feels  sad,  and  knows  not 
well  what  to  make  of  it.  He  almost  shuns  their  eye ;  he  fears 
they  will  upbraid  God.  What  should  they  do?  It  seems  a 
great  injustice.  But  see  the  facts  nearly,  and  these  mountainous 
inequalities  vanish.  Love  reduces  them,  as  the  sun  melts  the 
iceberg  in  the  sea.  The  heart  and  soul  of  all  men  being  one, 
this  bitterness  of  His  and  Mine  ceases.  His  is  mine.  I  am  my 
brother,  and  my  brother  is  me.  If  I  feel  overshadowed  and  out- 
done by  great  neighbors,  I  can  yet  love ;  I  can  still  receive ;  and 
he  that  loveth  maketh  his  own  the  grandeur  he  loves.  Thereby 
I  make  the  discovery  that  my  brother  is  my  guardian,  acting  for 
me  with  the  friendliest  designs,  and  the  estate  I  so  admired  and 
envied  is  my  own.  It  is  the  nature  of  the  soul  to  appropriate  all 
things.  Jesus  and  Shakespeare  are  fragments  of  the  soul,  and  by 
love  I  conquer  and  incorporate  them  in  my  own  conscious  do- 
main. His  virtue,  —  is  not  that  mine?  His  wit,  —  if  it  cannot 
be  made  mine,  it  is  not  wit. 

Such,  also,  is  the  natural  history  of  calamity.  The  changes 
which  break  up  at  short  intervals  the  prosperity  of  men  are  ad- 
vertisements of  a  nature  whose  law  is  growth.  Every  soul  is  by 
this  intrinsic  necessity  quitting  its  whole  system  of  things,  its 
friends,  and  home,  and  laws,  and  faith,  as  the  shellfish  crawls  out 
of  its  beautiful  but  stony  case,  because  it  no  longer  admits  of  its 
growth,  and  slowly  forms  a  new  house.  In  proportion  to  the 
vigor  of  the  individual,  these  revolutions  are  frequent,  until  in 
some  happier  mind  they  are  incessant,  and  all  worldly  relations 
hang  very  loosely  about  him,  becoming,  as  it  were,  a  transparent 
fluid  membrane  through  which  the  living  form  is  seen,  and  not, 
as  in  most  men,  an  indurated1  heterogeneous2  fabric  of  many 
dates,  and  of  no  settled  character,  in  which  the  man  is  imprisoned. 
Then  there  can  be  enlargement,  and  the  man  of  to-day  scarcely 

1  Hardened.  2  Composed  of  differing  things. 


COMPENSA  TION.  I  o  7 

recognizes  the  man  of  yesterday.  And  such  should  be  the  out- 
ward biography  of  man  in  time,  a  putting  off  of  dead  circum- 
stances day  by  day,  as  he  renews  his  raiment  day  by  day.  But 
to  us,  in  our  lapsed  estate,  resting,  not  advancing,  resisting,  not 
cooperating  with  the  divine  expansion,  this  growth  comes  by 
shocks. 

We  cannot  part  with  our  friends.  We  cannot  let  our  angels 
go.  We  do  not  see  that  they  only  go  out,  that  archangels  may 
come  in.  We  are  idolaters  of  the  old.  We  do  not  believe  in 
the  riches  of  the  soul,  in  its  proper  eternity  and  omnipresence. 
We  do  not  believe  there  is  any  force  in  to-day  to  rival  or  recre- 
ate1 that  beautiful  yesterday.  We  linger  in  the  ruins  of  the  old 
tent,  where  once  we  had  bread  and  shelter  and  organs,  nor  believe 
that  the  spirit  can  feed,  cover,  and  nerve  us  again.  We  cannot 
again  find  aught  so  dear,  so  sweet,  so  graceful.  But  we  sit  and 
weep  in  vain.  The  voice  of  the  Almighty  saith,  "  Up  and  on- 
ward f orevermore !  "  We  cannot  stay  amid  the  ruins.  Neither 
will  we  rely  on  the  new ;  and  so  we  walk  ever  with  reverted  eyes, 
like  those  monsters  who  look  backwards. 

And  yet  the  compensations  of  calamity  are  made  apparent  to 
the  understanding  also,  after  long  intervals  of  time.  A  fever, 
a  mutilation,  a  cruel  disappointment,  a  loss  of  wealth,  a  loss  of 
friends,  seems  at  the  moment  unpaid  loss,  and  unpayable.  But 
the  sure  years  reveal  the  deep  remedial  force  that  underlies  all 
facts.  The  death  of  a  dear  friend,  wife,  brother,  lover,  which 
seemed  nothing  but  privation,  somewhat  later  assumes  the  aspect 
of  a  guide  or  genius ;  for  it  commonly  operates  revolutions  in 
our  way  of  life,  terminates  an  epoch  of  infancy  or  of  youth  which 
was  waiting  to  be  closed,  breaks  up  a  wonted2  occupation,  or  a 
household,  or  style  of  living,  and  allows  the  formation  of  new 
ones  more  friendly  to  the  growth  of  character.  It  permits  or 
constrains  the  formation  of  new  acquaintances,  and  the  reception 
of  new  influences  that  prove  of  the  first  importance  to  the  next 
years ;  and  the  man  or  woman  who  would  have  remained  a 

1  Create  again.  2  Customary. 


108  EMERSON. 

sunny  garden  flower,  with  no  room  for  its  roots  and  too  much 
sunshine  for  its  head,  by  the  falling  of  the  walls  and  the  neglect 
of  the  gardener,  is  made  the  banian 1  of  the  forest,  yielding  shade 
and  fruit  to  wide  neighborhoods  of  men. 

1  Banyan,  an  East  Indian  tree  of  the  mulberry  family.  Aerial  roots 
descending  from  the  branches  become  fixed  in  the  ground,  and  thicken  into 
supports  or  pillars.  Thus  the  branches  spread  over  an  immense  area,  and  a 
single  tree  has  the  appearance  of  a  whole  grove. 


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OC 

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REC'D  LD 

JUL  1 7  1959 


AUG  2  3  1961 


REC'D 


19&6  4l 


LD  21-100m-12,'46(A2012sl6)4120 


.<? 
O 


^ 

jgT 


869045 


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